


Unregulated

by WardsAreFunctioning



Series: A Truth Universally Acknowledged [4]
Category: Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: F/M, Tumblr Prompt
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-03-03
Updated: 2019-02-10
Packaged: 2019-03-26 12:14:35
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 13
Words: 27,361
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13857576
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WardsAreFunctioning/pseuds/WardsAreFunctioning
Summary: Prompts from tumblr for Under Good Regulation (and probably other bits of the Truth Universally Acknowledged universe).





	1. The Fair

**Author's Note:**

> These are prompts for my fic [Under Good Regulation](https://archiveofourown.org/works/8351560/chapters/19132501).
> 
> If you'd like to prompt something, come on over to [my tumblr](https://wardsarefunctioning.tumblr.com/)!
> 
>  
> 
> ***The PWOP smut is in Chapters 10 and 13, and has Dom/sub themes.***

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Tumblr prompt from buttsonthebeach: _Prompt from my weird dream: a fair comes to Skyhold, and Lizzie tries to enjoy the day with Solas (I can't even remember all the things that went wrong in the version in my head...)_
> 
> Well, this completely wholesome prompt went in a bit of a smutty direction. But enjoy!

The idea was Josephine’s. After such a harsh winter, trade was down significantly, despite spring’s evident arrival. In Antiva, the fall harvest was celebrated with a fair, and merchants came from all over the world. It was meant to encourage commerce and raise morale.

Perhaps, Josephine suggested, Skyhold could also use the boost.

And so, an event was put together.

Elizabeth left her room late that day, revelling in the warm weather. Vines had always decorated the garden walls, but now they were flowering, red and pink and yellow peeking out between the leaves. Soon, it would be summerday, and those flowers would be woven into crowns for children to wear. In the spirit of celebration, Elizabeth picked a yellow bud and stuck it behind her ear before heading down to the courtyard.

The fair was already well underway. It was overwhelming--hundreds of people, bright colors, half-familiar smells, and loud sounds, all blending together. There were jesters, and bards, and a troop of players by a stage that had been erected. One stout dwarf was selling little carved mabaris, bears, and wolves by the lower forge. Another vendor had a variety of meats roasting on sticks beneath a purple and green awning, next to the Herald’s Rest.

“Blaze!” she heard Varric’s voice call, and she turned to see him and Bull sitting on a stack of wood that served as a bench. She made her way over, begging people’s pardons as she slipped between them.

“Hey, Little Boss,” Bull said with a grin. He had a stick of meat in one hand, so dark it was almost black.

“That looks burnt,” Elizabeth observed. “What is it?”

“Trout,” Bull said. “Salted and then--yeah, burnt to a crisp, basically. It’s how they do it on Seheron.” He offered her a bite and, after a moment’s hesitation, she accepted. He laughed when she coughed and made a face. “Not a fan?”

“It’s… very fishy,” Elizabeth managed. She gratefully accepted Varric’s offer of the mug he was holding, drinking deep.

Bull chuckled again. “Damn. Piece of advice, if Dorian ever tries to give you something called _garum_ , turn him down. It’s a Vint fish sauce and it’s, like, ten times stronger than that.”

“Noted,” Elizabeth said. She wrinkled her nose, looking back at the meat vendor. “I was going to try something. Are the others all like that?”

“Nah,” Bull said.

“Get the goat,” Varric suggested.

She followed his advice. After that, she sat with them for a little while, eating her lunch and sipping a sweet cider from one of the Ferelden stands, enjoying the weather. Bull pointed out which merchants were probably spying for someone, based on their wares and enthusiasm. Varric disagreed with one of Bull’s targets, an elf with a peg leg. The two of them debated his loyalties for a full fifteen minutes, while Elizabeth listened on, amused.

“The peg leg makes him too obvious a mark,” Varric explained. Bull raised an eyebrow and simply pointed to his eyepatch. Varric rolled his eyes. “Yeah, but you played up the look. You’re a mercenary, not a merchant. Standing out worked for you.” He waved a hand at the stall. “This guy’s trying to hide it.”

“True,” Bull mused. “But he’s hiding something.”

“Maybe he’s just a terrible spy,” Elizabeth suggested, and the other two laughed, agreeing.

Afterwards, she wandered down toward the stables, where the row of stalls looked distinctly Ferelden. A bracelet with a dark red gem caught her eye. She was admiring it when Solas found her, sliding into the spot beside her. She gave him a small smile.

“Fancy seeing you here,” she said.

He glanced around. The stand’s owner was haggling with an older woman that Elizabeth recognized as a Skyhold cook.

“You do not strike me as someone with much interest in jewelry,” Solas said.

“I’m not,” Elizabeth confessed, picking up the bracelet. “But I’m under strict instructions to spend money today. Josephine’s orders.” She made a mock solemn face. “For the good of the Inquisition.”

“Ah,” Solas said. He raised an eyebrow. “And have you?”

“I had some food,” she said. “And some cider.” She considered. “The statuettes are cute, aren’t they? And this bracelet is nice.” She held it out. “What do you think?”

He took it gently, tilting it in the light. “I agree. Its simplicity leaves an impression.”

The motion drew the attention of the vendor and he stormed over. “Hey!” he shouted. He snapped his fingers in Solas’s face, scowling. “Drop it, knife-ear.”

Elizabeth’s lips parted in surprise. Solas stiffened, but he complied, placing the bracelet back on the table without responding. He took a step back to leave, but Elizabeth grabbed his arm.

“How _dare_ you?” she asked the vendor. “What is _wrong_ with you?”

“Elizabeth,” Solas said in a warning tone.

“No,” Elizabeth said sternly. “I want this man to apologize.”

She turned back to the vendor, her eyes narrowed. He looked a little stunned by her outburst, but his expression quickly firmed. “Apologize?” he sputtered. “He was touching my jewelry!”

“He was _browsing_ your wares! Aren’t you here to sell? Isn’t that the whole point of a fair?”

“Yes, but not--”

“This is the Inquisition,” Elizabeth said. “And people here are treated as equals. Do you understand?”

“Equals!”

“Yes,” she exclaimed, tightening her grip on Solas’s arm. Solas swallowed, glancing around uncomfortably. “Because they are.”

The vendor chewed his jaw, his nostrils flaring. He scoffed. “And just who are you to tell me how to treat my customers?”

The other patron, the Skyhold cook who’d been watching, started to answer him. “Ser, she’s--”

Elizabeth waved her off. “Who I am doesn’t matter. Do you know,” she said, her voice going dangerously low, “who _he_ is?”

“Elizabeth--,” Solas tried again, this time more sharply, but she cut him off.

“This man saved the life of the Inquisitor. He was the one who figured out how to close the Breach. He’s one of the Inquisitor’s most trusted advisers.” She took a step forward. The vendor stumbled back. “Nobody deserves to be treated like that. _Nobody_. But _he_ , of all people, deserves your _respect_. Your _esteem.”_

Solas stood silently, his face a little pink. The vendor seemed to doubt himself, his eyes flicking back and forth between them. He shook his head, grabbing the bracelet and pulling it back, as if to protect it from even their eyes.

“Pah. Likely story. I've heard the ‘quisitor likes elves more than is common, but she'd never trust one to give her council.” He snorted. “A matched pair, you are.” He threw another glance Elizabeth’s clothes and then Solas’s. “And it’s not like either of you can afford my goods, anyway.”

Elizabeth fumed. Before she could speak again, Solas dipped his head next to her ear.

“This is not a battle you can win,” he murmured.

She glared at the vendor a second longer, then turned to the exit. Behind her she could hear the cook saying “Oh ser, I _tried_ to warn you, but that woman, she’s the Inquisitor’s--”.

The last word was lost as Elizabeth went toward the hold itself.

Solas kept stride with her. He didn’t speak.

“I’m finding Josephine,” she told him, replying to his unasked question. She marched up the stairs to the hold, her lips in a firm line.

“Ah.”

“I want that man _gone_ in the next hour.”

“That… seems severe.”

She glanced at him, askance, and caught a hint of amusement in his expression. “It’s not,” she insisted, still mad. “The way he spoke to you! What he called you! If anything, it’s nowhere _near_ enough, he should--”

They’d reached the main hall. Solas grabbed her and pulled her into the hallway that led to the rotunda. He closed the door and pulled her close, kissing her soundly, pushing her against the wall.

When he pulled back, she felt a little dazed. She raised her eyebrows.“You… enjoyed that.”

“I--yes,” he admitted. “I did. But please, do not try to defend me again. It is not worth it.”

“It is,” Elizabeth said angrily.

Solas gave her a warm smile. “No. That is not what I mean. You were… quite passionate. There was almost a spectacle. We are fortunate only two people were present.”

Elizabeth suddenly remembered her offer of not calling attention to their relationship, and groaned. “Oh,” she said. “Right. We’re not doing very well on the discretion front, are we?”

Solas pressed another kiss to her lips. Elizabeth let herself melt into it, wrapping her arms around his neck and deepening it, opening her mouth. Before she knew it, the outrage still burning in her chest was turning into something else, and the kiss was growing more heated.

She pressed herself more firmly against him, with purpose, and raised an eyebrow as she broke away. “You know,” she said in a breath, “everyone else is still down at the fair.”

Solas took her meaning and gave her a chastising look. “Not _everyone.”_

“Enough people,” she said, reaching up to reach his neck. Her kisses traced higher. She softly bit the spot under his ear, and he shuddered, relenting.

“Are you certain you can stay quiet?” he asked softly, his voice catching.

“Yes,” she whispered. “Very quiet. I was raised in a Circle, remember?” She gave him a coy smirk. “I'm only loud for you.” She bit her lip. “And you have to admit, there's... a certain thrill to the idea of being caught.”

His eyes darkened. He slipped a hand into her pants, pushing her smalls aside. She leaned her head against the stone wall, ignoring how rough it was against her hair.

Not a whimper escaped her. When she came around his fingers a few minutes later, she was silent, her face twisted tight with pleasure.

She kissed him gently through the aftershocks, then grabbed his hand. “Come on,” she said, still breathless. “My room. I want to repay you.” She gave him a look. “And I don't trust you to be quiet.”

Solas chuckled. “Just one moment.” She turned to protest, only to see he was picking up something from the floor. He held it up as he straightened. She recognized the yellow flower she'd picked that morning. She grinned and tucked it back behind her ear. 

This time, when she tugged his hand, he smiled and offered no resistance.

 


	2. A Problem With Authority

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hawke reflects on meeting Inquisitor Jane Trevelyan for the first time

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Tumblr Prompt from thewannabeewriter:
> 
> I'm so sad UGR is over but also the ending was wonderful so I'm delighted at the same time! I was wondering if I could maybe request a Hawke pov of meeting Jane? thank you!!!

****Hawke knew she was being a bit of an ass to Inquisitor Trevelyan from the start. Then again, she would argue that she had the right to be cagey with people in leadership positions, considering her past experiences. She told Varric as much over a mug of ale immediately after meeting the Inquisitor for the first time.

Varric snorted. “Wait. Are you saying you’ve earned the _right_ to have a problem with authority?”

“I have no problem with authority,” Hawke replied, leaning back in her chair. “None, whatsoever. If anything, _authority_ has a problem with _me_ . What I’m saying is that I’m fully entitled to judge a person’s leadership skills at first glance. _Especially_ when they’re lacking.”

“Lacking,” he echoed, unconvinced.

“You heard me,” Hawke said.

“Alright, I’ll bite,” he said. “What’s wrong with her?”

Hawke took a sip of ale. “She’s weak.”

He cocked an eyebrow. “Really? You looked at Jane Trevelyan and walked away with the word _weak?_ I mean, she’s a little quiet, yeah, but I’m pretty sure she could out-lift Aveline.”

“I’ll tell Aveline you said that,” she threatened.

“No, you won’t.”

“No, I won’t,” Hawke admitted. _“And anyway,_ I don’t mean weak like that. She has no goals. No vision. She has all of this at her disposal.” She gestured around at the dozens of men and women around them. “And the best she could do as a mission statement is… stability?”

“Given the shit you and I’ve seen, stability doesn’t seem like the worst goal in the world.”

“It’s vague.”

“And vague is bad?”

“Vague is terrible,” Hawke confirmed. “Vague means your values and morals are flexible. It’s how everyone else stomps all over you.” She shrugged. “You know who was vague?” She lowered her voice, glancing around. _“Elthina_. Elthina was very vague. _‘Oh, Orsino has a point. Oh, Meredith has a point, too. Oh, I guess it’s in the Maker’s hands now.’”_

“The Inquisitor isn’t that religious.”

“Religion’s not the point, Tethras,” Hawke said, waving him off. “Platitudes are platitudes. Stability means letting the Chantry run things to these people, whether it’s the Maker, or the Divine, or--in a pinch--a particularly intense Knight-Commander. It's their version of the Qun. Having a system that looks like it works, whether it actually does or not.”

“I feel like I should be taking notes,” Varric mused, half to himself.

Hawke ignored him. “People like Elthina and the Inquisitor don’t want to rock the boat, so they never try to fix the leaks until half the world is drowning.”

“She’s fixing things, Hawke. You and her just talked strategy for a good half hour.”

“About Corypheus. She’ll do something about him, for sure. But that’s easy.” Hawke winced, relenting. “Well. Figuratively speaking, Corypheus is easy. What I mean is… look. The big leaks, everyone agrees on how to handle them. Kill Corypheus. Defeat the Archdemon. Close the giant hole in the sky. Everyone is on the same page when the world’s burning. Remember, we fought beside Meredith _and_ Orsino _and_ Anders when the Arishok attacked. In the long run, it’s the little leaks that sink the boat. The ones no one can agree on. Politics, not war.” She held up her mug in a mock salute. “Believe me, I speak from experience. I’m sure your Inquisitor will be an excellent figurehead until one day, she gets herself a Meredith, or an Anders, and suddenly she’s supposed to make the hard choices. Choices people might not like. And on that day, she will decide that the possibility of chaos isn’t worth it, and she’ll choose the easy way out.”

Varric studied her over the mug of his beer, considering. “And that’s why you don’t like her.”

“That’s why I don’t like her,” Hawke agreed.

“Are you sure this isn’t about Corypheus?”

Hawke rolled her eyes. _“Yes_ , I’m sure this isn’t about Corypheus.”

“I mean, you only talked to her for, like, thirty minutes, and--”

 _“Weak,”_ she said, tapping the table twice with her index finger. She smirked. “Mark my words.”

“Fine.” Varric finished off his beer and offered a hand out for her mug. “Another round?”

“Only if you’re paying,” Hawke replied.

He laughed. “You know, one day, I’m gonna call that bluff.”

Hawke’s eyes darted around the tavern. “Oh, I’m sure I could find another willing patron.”

As he walked away, shaking his head, a puff of air brushed Hawke’s neck. She turned to see that Cole had appeared beside her. She sighed, grimacing.

“Go on,” she said when he didn't immediately speak. “Out with it. Before he gets back.”

“Brown eyes and a quiet smile. Her face is thinner, and the hair’s all wrong, but the magic’s the same. You choke on the last part of her name, so you call her Trevelyan.” Cole was silent for a moment. “I’m sorry she died. But it’s not your fault.”

“I know,” Hawke said.

Cole glanced up and to the side, toward Skyhold itself, where the Inquisitor had gone. “It's not her fault that _hers_ is alive.”

“I know that, too.”

Cole paused. “You _did_  help.

“It wasn't enough.”

“You wanted to fix everything, but no one listened. It wasn't your fault.”

She shook her head slowly. “I made… different mistakes.”

“They weren’t all mistakes.”

Hawke sighed. Her stomach was beginning to cramp, and she wondered if she _shouldn’t_ talk to Varric about all the other things that bugged her about Jane Trevelyan. But she knew they said more about her than they did about the damn Inquisitor, and there was always the risk that he’d put it in a book. That her bared soul would end up on display again, with yet another chink in the Champion’s armor.

Well, at least the world didn’t know how badly she fucked up with Corypheus.

 _Shit_ , she thought, surprised at herself. Her brow lowered. Maybe Varric was right. Maybe this  _was_ about Corypheus.

“She wants to help, too,” Cole went on. “You should give her a chance.”

Hawke closed her eyes, her lips thinning. “I’ll try,” she promised Cole.

They both knew that she would not. 


	3. Lost & Found

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prompt from unseeliequeens: _"solas and apostate elizabeth have a reunion and also maybe reunion banging (or reunion cuddles whichever floats ur boat)"_
> 
> So just to be super, duper clear, this is an AU, because Elizabeth in UGR has not yet left Skyhold. That's why it's here and not in the Solas POV fic. Because it does not happen in UGR canon. At all.
> 
> Got it? Good. On to apostate Elizabeth!

Solas approached the Temple of Dirthamen on quiet feet, one hand stretched out to dispel caches of water from a recent storm. He did not wish to leave tracks. In all likelihood, his attention to detail was unwarranted. It had been over a year since he’d been here with the Inquisitor, and she’d been perturbed enough by what they had encountered to abandon the place entirely.

But Solas preferred to err on the side of caution. According to his people within the Inquisition, his absence was not accepted at face value as he’d hoped. Leliana was searching for him. He would rather her hunt remain fruitless.

Luckily for him, the Inquisition was facing the fate of any organization of its size and scope, and beginning to rot from the inside out. Last he’d checked, at least five foreign entities had spies within the Inquisition ranks--not including his own. Leliana was aware of this, or at least aware enough to remain distracted. Which was not difficult. He had come to respect the woman for several reasons by the time he left, but her inability to prioritize never seemed to change.

The door of the temple was open, just as the Inquisitor had left it. The place was surrounded by a thicket, wild vines covered in thorns and, at this time of the year, large white roses; otherwise, Solas would be concerned that bandits or perhaps a lone wanderer would discover this place. As it was, he was confident it would be empty.

That confidence lasted until he walked into the building and immediately tripped over a ward of his own design.

He froze, the familiar tremor of energy making his thoughts scatter in confusion. Had he left a ward here? No, it was not _actually_ his, he realized. He did not feel the tell-tale spark that he would have felt, had it been his own. It was only one similar to his own design. Which meant--

A ripple of mana was all the warning he received before his feet were locked in place by ice. He felt the brush of a barrier being raised several yards away. His realization came a moment too late.

“Not any farther,” she said, and his throat became thick at the sound of her voice. “This place is occupied. Do you understand me?”

Despite the fact that his heart thudded in his chest--and not from fear--he remained calm. For a moment, he considered pushing back his hood. He refrained, knowing she would not appreciate his hands moving.

“Do you understand?” she repeated, stepping closer, a shadow now in his line of sight. He could tell that her staff was raised, but that her armor was far from sufficient. It was not something of her own making; she’d probably deemed those items too easy to identify.

Were he a templar, or someone seeking to harm her, she would be in serious danger now. Besides that, any traveller who entered such a place could have supplies to barter--food, or information even. She would make an enemy of them instead of a friend.

He felt his lips twitch in dark amusement.

“You,” he said slowly, bowing his head, “make a _terrible_ apostate.”

She stilled, her staff lowering. _“Solas?”_

He lifted his hand with deliberate steadiness, not wanting to startle her, and lowered his hood. She stepped forward into the light. Her small dark eyes were wide and her thin lips were parted. He took in her face with a jagged breath, letting his eyes rake over her. Warmth ran through his veins-- _relief_ , he decided, at the fact that she lived, though the thought rang something like false.

“Elizabeth,” he said, her name gentle on his lips.

For a moment, they just stared at each other, her face etched in shock, his carefully neutral. As they stared, he tried to come up with a plan of escape--for that was the only thing he could do in this position. She would expect affection, he was sure. He immediately shut down the images that arose, not wanting to let himself think of how it would feel to touch her again, to feel her hand brush his cheek, the back of his neck--

But, no. That could not happen. Nor could they sit as companions, detailing the events of their lives over a fire. Already, he struggled with the line of what had been real and what had been not real in his time with the Inquisition. To blur the line further by acknowledging any part of it after Corypheus’s death would be foolish.

Solas needed to leave, and to do so, he needed to quietly untangle himself from this situation by telling Elizabeth that they could not interact. She would understand, he was sure. He would simply tell her that he needed to cut all ties, as she’d once assumed.

And he would. He would, as soon as he’d drank his fill of her beautiful eyes staring at him in the moonlight, of her living, breathing body being before him once more. As soon as he’d let himself watch her face soften into that familiar tenderness that had once looked so foreign on her sharp features. As soon as he’d seen that tenderness melt into a smile, and heard his name on her lips once more.

“Solas,” she whispered, stepping closer.

He meant to discourage her then, stepping back, but her ice still trapped him in place, and when she pulled him into a rough kiss, her hunger sparked something deep within him. The arms he’d put up to stop her instead enveloped her, dragging her warm body against his. He opened his lips to her, accepting her.

Had it only been ten months? That could not be so. It felt as though it’d been another thousand years since he’d touched her. Elizabeth’s tongue slid firmly against his and he brought one hand up to her hair to pull it gently, tilting her head to kiss her deeper. Her rough fingers scraped the back of his neck, causing him to shudder. When they ran down his back, he could not help but wish that he wore no vest or tunic, that her calloused hands were on his bare skin.

That thought made him jerk back his head. She let his lips go, but clung to him, tucking her face in his shoulder with a hiccuping laugh. It took everything in him not to bury his nose into her hair, to breathe in the scent of her, warm and shivering and _alive_.

“I thought I’d never see you again,” Elizabeth murmured, her voice cracking. “I missed you. Maker, I missed you _so much.”_

Solas closed his eyes. There had been a dozen scenarios he’d once assessed, where he would encounter Elizabeth. Scenarios involving her sister’s anchor. The removal of the Veil. A brief fantasy he tried not to dwell on, where he gave her the gift of her phylactery in person. The majority of them became impossible when his agents reported her missing from Skyhold, but he’d laid out each possibility in detail, to try and prepare himself.

A happy reunion was not something he’d considered.

He pushed her down and away. She gave him a look, slight confusion marring the delight on her face. He gestured toward his feet and the ice began to melt.

“Oh!” she exclaimed. “Sorry. I forgot I did that--”

“It is no trouble,” he said. He cocked an eyebrow at her. “I did not think to find you here.”

She shook her head. “I didn’t mean to be here. I was--not far when the rain came. Luckily, I had an Inquisition map with me, so I knew I could wait out the storm inside. Then I fell asleep, and--.” She shrugged, her smile widening. “Here we are.”

Her happiness at seeing him cut deep. “Elizabeth,” he said, softly. “I cannot stay.”

Her face fell. His heart fell with it. He found the mad urge to comfort her, but his knew those impulses had been the problem in the first place. She turned slightly, the light from the moon stretching shadows from her nose, her lashes. Then she tilted her head, a smile flickering.

“Not even,” she said, shyly, a finger worrying the hem of her sleeve, “for just the night?”

He could tell she meant the offer to sound coy. Instead, it came out uncertain, and her fidgeting revealed her nervousness. She was… still more enticing than he’d care to admit. He paused instead of immediately rejecting her.

He’d forgotten that, with Elizabeth, hesitation was his downfall.

“I know,” she said quickly. “I can’t go with you. I’m not asking that. More people are looking for me than for you, and the consequences for you would be much higher. But,” she paused, biting her lip. “But I’m not being trailed. And we seem to have some time on our hands.”

He closed his eyes, his will faltering. As always, he did not even need to lie, not truly. Elizabeth was eager to excuse his behavior, blaming herself for his reluctance. She made her own assumptions, and he did not correct her.

“This place seems secure enough,” she added.

The temple was secure. That much was true. But for very different reasons than Elizabeth was suggesting. Solas had to hold back a laugh. What he was considering doing in a place of _Dirthamen’s,_ of all people--

He caught himself before he finished the thought. Was he actually _considering?_

When he opened his eyes to find Elizabeth’s hopeful eyes before him--here,  _truly here_ _,_  and not a memory--he was forced to acknowledge that yes. Yes, he was. He'd missed her as well, the tiny flame that lit his world in ways he was only just understanding. The thought of leaving her in this cold temple alone was more than enough to convince him. 

He cupped her cheek and kissed her.

 _Fool,_ he told himself as he broke away, his mouth still warm from hers.

“One night,” he said before leaning in for another slow kiss, abandoning any hope of leaving. 

 

~~~

 

The moonlight turned brighter, then dimmer. A breeze made the white roses outside the door flutter, cooled by the storm. After they’d made love, Elizabeth lit a fire she’d built earlier with a lazy wave. It was nearly sunrise. He knew he had to leave.

But he worried for her. She was safe here and now, in his arms, but what of the future? How long would she truly be able to survive? Her instincts were warped from years of being suppressed and coddled, her magic stunted by Chantry rule.

As she snuggled back against him, her back to his chest, he gave her a gentle lecture on her initial reaction to his presence. Instinctively, he wrapped an arm around her, pulling her closer, his cloak draped over them as a blanket.

“Do not present yourself as an enemy without establishing that your target is intending to harm you,” he said sternly. “Hide your staff first, and then hide yourself, near enough to reach it, but not so near that if you are found, you will be identified as a mage.”

“Is that an order?” Elizabeth asked slyly, her voice thick with contentment and suggestion. Solas wished he hadn’t noticed, but now that he had, it would be etched in his memory. He knew well enough he’d hear it again and again, a siren’s song trying to lure him back to her.

This had been difficult enough the first time.

“Be serious,” he told her.

She sighed, but complied. “Won’t they feel my wards?” she asked.

“Only if they’re mages,” he replied, focusing on her question. “And if they are a mage, they could be an ally.”

“Or,” she said, stretching to close any distance between their bodies, “they could be an impossibly handsome elf with the _most_ talented fingers--”

“Yes,” Solas interrupted quickly, feeling his ears turn pink. Fortunately, she could not see them. “Well.”

Her chuckle made her vibrate against him. “Any other advice, O Wise One?”

He hesitated. “Only this: there is a spot two hours due north of here where two rivers converge. Follow either, and you will find it. There is a willow tree just to the side of the east-most river, one with a hollow bottom. Inside, there is a set of light armor. It is of much better quality than what you’re wearing.” She twisted to face him, all humor gone, her eyes glittering curiously in the fading firelight. “It is designed for a human woman, so I left it.”

She looked confused. “And it’s just sitting there?”

 _It will be,_ Solas thought to himself. _In two hours._ “Yes.”

She looked away, then back at him. “What, is this part of some underground apostates-helping-apostates thing I’m not aware of?”

He considered. “In a manner of speaking,” he allowed.

“That’s handy,” she said brightly. He didn’t reply. She pressed a kiss to his jaw and curled against his chest, pulling the cloak tighter around them both. “Thank you.”

“Of course. It is no trouble,” he said, knowing he would lose the only drop spot he had in a fifty mile radius. He would need a new one. Perhaps somewhere in the temple would suffice. He would need to return, after all, to explore, as he had intended to do that evening. The thought of his duties brought him back to the present. He gathered his will, pressing a kiss to her forehead. “I must go. It will be dawn soon. A less ideal time for me to travel.”

As he began to untangle himself, she slipped her arms around his body, pulling him back with surprising strength. “Just a little longer?” she murmured against his back. “Just until I fall asleep?”

Solas swallowed. He could feel her hands at his side, loosening to let him go if he insisted. But instead he relaxed. She rested her cheek against his shoulder, and  he closed his eyes, a mixture of pride and shame tightening between his lungs.

He accepted it now; there was no blurred line between what was and wasn’t. That was a lie he’d concocted to deny the truth. This woman loved him, and he loved her. That had been and always would be real.

He shifted to face her, his arms pulling her closer. She settled against him. He kissed her forehead again, this time lingering a little longer. _“Vhenan,”_ he whispered into her skin.

As her breath evened against his bare chest, the first rays of dawn painted her cheeks pink, and Solas swore he could hear Felassan laughing.


	4. Marvel At Perfection, For It Is Fleeting

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prompt for Tress13: _Jane's POV of post-final battle/ Solas leaving?_

In the years to come, Jane would reflect on the end of that final battle with Corypheus and try to remember the exact sequence of events. She killed the dragon first, that much she knew. She remembered her sword plunging into its exposed neck and the rush of relief she felt when its massive, lifeless body crumpled.

In the fight that followed, Corypheus rapidly lost control of the orb, but she could not remember how. She was thrown to the ground, too, headfirst. Had that happened first? She remembered him grappling with the orb, begging it to respond to his magic.

But it was not enough.

As the orb began to spark, so did the anchor. Jane's head felt light and she seemed to watch herself from far away, as if she no longer was in her own body. She saw that version of herself rise to her feet and hold out her left hand.

The orb snapped toward her, coming to rest in her palm.

The moment that the anchor touched the orb, a sharp charge ran through her veins, and she was jerked back into awareness. The charge was hot as fire, like her arm was burning from the inside out. Only adrenaline and the dragon’s blood kept the pain at bay. Her wide eyes moved from the orb to Corypheus himself. Without the power of the orb or his dragon, he looked weak, like a skeleton propped up by string.

He fell to his knees. A would-be god, surrendering.

An electric current sparked in her hand, and she knew suddenly what she could do--what she had to do. With a snap of the mark, she propelled the orb skyward, into the Beach. The vortex swirled for a moment, then--with a throb of pain shooting through the anchor that made her cry out--the Breach collapsed in on itself and closed.

The orb clattered to the ground beside her. Everything that had been suspended by the orb’s magic began to fall. Rocks crashed around them. A distant part of Jane could _sense_ the whole world in that moment, every fiber around her, and she stepped forward, easily avoiding the damage.

“You wanted into the Fade?” she hissed at Corypheus, her hand outstretched, sparking. She _pushed_ with her anchor, like she had at Adamant. A rift started in his chest, tearing his skin apart, making shards of red lyrium glitter green. Veins of lightning appeared along his body.

In a crack of magic, he was gone.

The moment Corypheus died, Jane’s supernatural awareness seemed to break. A rock smashed to pieces beside her, and she jumped, cursing, as a piece hit her armor hard enough to dent it. She spotted Cassandra several yards away, turning to flee, and she followed, praying to Andraste under her breath.

The next rock shook the ground. She tripped, off balance, and then everything was darkness.

 

~~~

 

Jane woke amongst the silent ruins of Haven for the second time of her life. She blinked at the lights above her until they turned into stars. It was still nighttime, then. There was no Breach. Instead, rays of iridescent light shone through the wound in the sky.

She sat up, rubbing her head. Her anchor still ached, sending spasms up her arm. A movement caught the corner of her eye. Solas was several feet away from her, bending over. Pushing herself up, she began to approach him, to see if he was injured. He had crouched over something, and she realized his shoulders were slumped forward in defeat. For a terrifying moment, she thought maybe he was looking at a corpse, and her heart stuttered to a stop. _Cassandra? Varric?_

But when she had almost reached his side, she saw it was just the remnants of the orb.

“Solas?” she asked quietly.

He stiffened at the sound of her voice, but did not look up. “The orb,” he said in a broken voice, sounding devastated.

Jane felt a pang of sympathy. The orb had been half the reason he’d stayed with the Inquisition. And she knew how much it had broke him to see the Temple of Mythal fall. To lose another artifact that he considered valuable to his people after so much work--

“I’m sorry,” she said.

“It is not your fault,” he said, distant but sincere. He stood and turned, meeting her eyes. He seemed to be on the cusp of speaking, his eyes darting over her face. His lips thinned and he looked away instead.

“What is it?” she asked.

He bowed his head. “It was not supposed to happen this way.” He paused. “Know that whatever happens--you shall always have my respect, Inquisitor.”

Before Jane could ask what he meant by that, Cassandra’s voice called out from behind her. “Inquisitor!”

She watched Solas a second longer, then turned to find Cassandra, heading toward the ruins that had once been Haven’s entrance. It was not just Cassandra who waited there. The rest of her people had gathered--those she had brought with her, and several who must have arrived during the fight. She was relieved to see Morrigan alive, though injured, leaning heavily Cole.

Jane scanned her eyes over the crowd, noting the proud, clear way Cassandra was smiling at her. This would be labelled another miracle, she was sure. More proof that she was Andraste’s Herald. The thought twisted her stomach a bit. She barely heard Cassandra ask her if she was alright, and it took her a moment to process the question.

“I am,” she said, ignoring the throb in her palm. She could ask Solas to look at the anchor later. “We should head back to Skyhold.”

 

~~~

 

A celebration was planned for one week later. Josephine outdid herself, given how little time she had to prepare. Morrigan healed admirably well, but declined an invitation to the party itself.

By coincidence, it was held the same day that Leliana confirmed through her agents that Solas had disappeared intentionally. They’d caught sight of him hiking west, but soon lost his trail. 

“Why would he leave?” Jane wondered.

“You said he was upset about the orb,” Leliana said.

Jane shook her head, biting her thumbnail. “That can't have been the only reason.”

“We will continue to look for him,” Leliana assured her. She gave her an apologetic look. “I know he and your sister were… close.”

Jane didn’t meet Leliana’s eye. That much was true. Lizzie was closer to Solas than she was to even Jane by the end. She wondered briefly if something had happened, if they'd argued or ended things.

She was unlikely to find out now. 

That night, she made sure to sit with as many people as possible, to thank them. She knew many of them would move on now that Corypheus was dead. Vivienne greeted her warmly, and they congratulated each other. She would be off to Val Royeaux for her coronation shortly. When the first of the candles went out, she stopped by Cullen’s seat and squeezed his shoulder. He looked up, startled.

“Found you,” she whispered.

He gave her a crooked smile. He looked around, watching as the crowd thinned. “Looks like things are dying down. Think you can slip away for a moment?”

She smiled, leaning down. “A moment? Let’s slip away forever.”

Cullen huffed. “If only. I’m sure the lady ambassador is concocting something or other for us to do next.”

“Come on,” she said, tugging his hand. “We’ve earned ourselves a few weeks, at least.” As he stood, an idea struck her. She walked backwards, still holding his hand, her lips tugging upward. “Perhaps we could take a vacation. The two of us, I mean.”

Cullen looked at her fondly. “I believe I’d like that.” His eyes moved to behind her and became serious. He cleared his throat. She glanced over her shoulder.

Lizzie was waiting by the door to Jane’s chambers. She wore an apprehensive expression on her face. At the sight of them approaching, she straightened, giving Cullen a nod, which he returned.

“I, ah,” Lizzie said. “I was hoping to speak with Jane for a moment.”

“Of course. I’ll be upstairs,” Cullen murmured before kissing Jane’s hand and disappearing behind her heavy door.

“Good evening,” Lizzie said once the door closed. She glanced at the windows behind them. “Or-- good morning, I suppose.”

“Yes,” Jane said. “Good morning.”

There was an awkward pause. Lizzie dropped her eyes to the floor. “I--well. I wanted to congratulate you. You did well.” She winced. “Amazing. You did amazing, really.”

Jane raised her eyebrows, surprised. “Thank you.”

“I always knew you could do it,” Lizzie continued, darting her eyes up. Jane felt her throat tighten. She bit her lip. After a shake of her head, Lizzie took a determined step forward and threw her arms around Jane, squeezing her tightly. “Maker, I’m so glad you’re okay.”

The embrace only lasted a few seconds before Lizzie pulled back, putting distance between them and coughing. Jane blinked back the mist in her eyes and forced herself not to speak until she could swallow. She could tell this was not a reconciliation. Lizzie was still not ready to forgive her. In all likelihood, she never would be. It was a shared moment over the death of a monster, an acknowledgment that the Inquisition had done the one thing they had both worked so hard to accomplish.

“I’m… sorry about Solas,” Jane said, for want of anything else to say. Immediately, she regretted saying it, but to her surprise, her sister met her eye and gave her a sad smile.

“I’m not,” she said.

Jane wasn’t sure what that meant, and so was silent.

Lizzie sniffed. She jerked her head toward Jane’s door. “Go on,” she said, looking away again. “Cullen’s waiting.”

She disappeared into the Undercroft before Jane could form a reply, apparently ready to work despite the early hour of the morning. Jane watched her go.

Any thoughts of her sister were muted when she reached the top of her staircase. Cullen was standing on the balcony, a shadow framed by the morning twilight. Her lips twisted into a smile and she made her way to him, her chest tight and warm. When she touched his arm, he turned and grinned down at her. He pulled her into a hug.

“Alright?” he asked.

“Alright,” she confirmed. She sighed against him, letting herself relax.

“You did that,” he said after a moment. She tilted her head to follow his gaze. The mark in the sky was turning from aqua to green in the pale light.

“With a little help,” she told him.

He chuckled, sneaking his head around to kiss her. When he pulled back, he smiled. “So, a vacation. I must admit, I’m not precisely an expert.”

“It’s not alchemy,” Jane said, her tone teasing. “I’m sure we can figure it out.”

“Where were you thinking?” He stroked her hair back from her face. “Antiva, perhaps? The coast of Rivain?”

Jane pulled back to look more clearly into his eyes. “I was thinking… how about Honnleath?”

He looked struck with surprise, then uncommonly pleased. “Yes,” he said, his smile widening. “Honnleath would be… nice.”

“Then Honnleath it is.”

They stood together in silence, watching the snow on the peaks turn pink and gold, as the dawn broke over the Frostbacks. Jane let her eyes fall back to the scar in the sky.

The threat was over. Corypheus was dead. Vivienne would lead the Chantry to stability and, hopefully, peace. And Cullen was here beside her. The future was never assured, but in that moment, she felt she could take on the world.

She leaned her cheek against Cullen’s chest, satisfied.

A throb of pain spasmed in her palm. She squeezed her hand closed to hide the tremor, her smile faltering.


	5. Absence

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This one's from Tress13. I can only post part of her ask, because I'm still hoping to do the other half:
> 
>  
> 
> _Or maybe Lizzie isn't as good at being discrete as she once was (she's out of practice)?_
> 
>  
> 
> I'm not sure if this is AU or not, to be honest. I'm not quite clear on how many people know about Solas and Lizzie, and I'd like to keep that vague in canon, so let's file this one under "could possibly have happened".

 

A month after Lady Trevelyan’s unceremonious visit to Skyhold, Jane pulled Elizabeth aside after a war room meeting, concern writ on her face. For a moment, Elizabeth thought something was wrong. Worriedly, she asked her sister if everything was alright.

“Well,” Jane began, looking away, “I’m going to the Forbidden Oasis tomorrow.”

Elizabeth nodded. They’d just been in an hour long meeting about this very subject. Jane had collected enough shards to possibly enter the innermost chamber, where they hoped to find whatever the Venatori were seeking.

“The temple was built with elven magic,” Jane went on. She glanced up at Elizabeth hopefully, then looked uncomfortable when Elizabeth’s face was still blank. “What I mean is… I--I should probably bring Solas. If that’s alright?”

Elizabeth raised her eyebrows and blinked.

“We’ll only be gone a few weeks,” Jane rushed to assure her. “And Cassandra tells me it’s not as dangerous as the Approach itself, and it _would_ be useful to have him there--”

“Jane,” she interrupted, amused. “Are you asking my _permission_ to bring Solas with you?”

Jane’s eyes widened. “No! No. I just-- I--.” She sighed. “Well, yes. I suppose so.”

Elizabeth grinned, shaking her head. She tried to imagine the look on Solas’s face if she relayed this to him later. “Maker. If Solas heard you right now….”

Jane looked horrified. “You won’t tell him?”

“No,” Elizabeth said. She laughed, crossing her arms. “You _do_ realize we’re both part of a large organization dedicated to defeating a darkspawn magister? _Your_ organization, in fact. I wouldn’t let you jeopardize things just because of a… fling between two mages.”

 _Or whatever_ , Elizabeth added in her head.

 _“Still,”_ Jane said. “I wanted to make sure you’d be alright with it.”

Elizabeth took Jane’s arm and began to lead her back to the main hallway. “I’m more than alright with it. Really, Jane. You _should_ take him.” She gave her sister a sidelong glance. “You and Cullen have to spend time apart, don’t you?”

“Yes,” Jane admitted. “But I’m the Inquisitor. I _have_ to be out there.”

“Of course. And in this case, _‘there’_ happens to be an elven ruin, an area of knowledge Solas is particularly familiar with. It makes just as much sense for him to be there as you.” Elizabeth smiled. “Not to mention he’s a pretty good fighter.”

Jane nodded, looking reassured. “As long as you don’t mind….”

“Please,” Elizabeth said, waving a hand. “Don’t worry about me. I’ll be fine.”

They’d reached Jane’s door, so Elizabeth said her goodbyes. She headed to the rotunda and lingered in the doorway until Solas looked up. With a tilt of her head, she indicated he should meet her in one of the stairwells, and then disappeared inside. It would take him some time to wrap up what he was doing and ensure he was not seen--she could almost see in her mind’s eye his cautious sweep of the library before leaving.

The moment he appeared, she wrapped her arms around him, pulling him in for a kiss. She normally kept things chaste this early in the afternoon, but knowing he’d be gone in just a day, she pressed her body close to his. She all but drank in his sharp breath, her teeth scraping his bottom lip as she caught it gently. After a moment of surprise, he responded in kind, sweeping his tongue against hers. She moaned a little, letting the small spark of anxiety she felt over him leaving ignite into something akin to passion. When she needed a breath, she pulled back with a smirk.

He kept his arms on her waist, looking dazed. “To, ah--what do I owe this pleasant surprise?”

“You’re going away,” she explained. He raised one eyebrow. “The Oasis. Elizabeth’s Garden, in fact. I thought I’d leave you something to remember me by.” She bit her lip, grinning. “Was that sufficient? Or will you need a few more reminders? We have tonight, after all.”

He chuckled, dipping his head. “You are in no danger of escaping my mind, Elizabeth,” he said, speaking her name in the low tone that warmed the blood in her veins.

Elizabeth shivered, leaning close. “Hm,” she murmured, half-against his lips. “But perhaps we should _really_ make sure.”

Solas’s hands ran up and down her back as he laughed. He met her eyes. “Far be it from me to stop you.”

 

~~~

 

Elizabeth did not realize how integral Solas had become to her life in one short month until he was gone. The first few days were fine--it was a novelty, almost, to have so much time to herself. She was able to finally finish the dry book on entropy she’d been trying to read for two weeks. Dorian would be proud--if he hadn’t headed west with Jane, as well. She met one-on-one with a few students who could use extra training. She went to bed early and slept through the night without being jostled awake by someone joining her. She even re-organized her desk in the forge.

By the sixth day, she had to admit that his absence was grating on her.

She thought she knew what it was to miss someone. How many times had Jane been away since they’d joined the Inquisition? For Andraste’s sake, she’d even missed _Solas_ when he’d left before, back when everything between was still a question mark. But this time, it was different. It was as if she could feel the physical distance whenever she passed by the rotunda. Her bed felt colder, colder than even the nights he chose not to join her, just from her knowing there was not even a possibility of him appearing. 

On the seventh day, grey light woke her. There was rain that morning, as if she’d summoned bad weather with her mood. She rose, going through the motions of preparing for the day. The face she caught in the mirror was drawn and pale, to her disappointment. She chastised herself for letting something as simple as a few weeks apart get to her. A frightening realization nudged at the corner of her mind, that perhaps she’d gotten herself in too deep, too quickly. When he left for good--.

She squeezed her eyes shut. It was not a good sign that she could not even think that sentence through. She sighed, wishing that she could speak with Jane about how stupid she was being. That she could speak to _anyone._ Even Dorian, or Maker, _Varric_ would be a welcome face.

 _But no,_ she thought glumly. _Everyone who knows about us is gone_.

That thought carried her to breakfast, where she sat  in silence with the council. She listened to them discuss negotiations between Ferelden and Orlais--because _of course_ the Inquisition was handling that now, she thought wryly--and ate her oats. Josephine did ask if she was feeling alright, but she shrugged off the inquiry.

“Just a bad night’s sleep,” she lied.

When the others rose to attend to their duties, Cullen hung back. He hesitated before speaking. “Letters help,” he said finally.

“What?” Elizabeth asked, surprised.

“Letters,” Cullen repeated, rubbing his neck. “They help. Writing them, that is. When….” He looked a little uncomfortable. “When Jane’s away, I write her letters. I thought--.” He stopped.

“Oh,” Elizabeth said, understanding.

“I just thought I’d mention,” he offered.

Elizabeth nodded, looking at the table. “Thank you.”

There was an awkward silence. “A few of us are playing Wicked Grace at the Herald’s Rest tonight,” he added after a moment. “You should join.” He ducked his head. “Ah, keeping busy… with other people. That helps, as well.”

She looked at him. He looked so sincere that she fought back her urge to decline. “That sounds… good. I’ll be there.”

“Good,” he said, nodding. He gave her half a smile. “Back to work, then.”

Elizabeth stared after him as he stalked off toward his office.

So perhaps not _everyone_ who knew was away.

 

~~~

 

The whole back table at the Herald’s Rest was full. Either Cullen’s definition of _‘a few of us’_ varied from hers, or more people had been persuaded to attend the game since breakfast. She’d assumed it would be Cullen and Josephine--maybe Leliana. Instead, it was all three of them, plus Bull, Krem, Sera, Dagna, and Cassandra. Before she had a chance to second guess herself, Josephine spotted her and was soon dragging her over to sit between Cassandra and Bull.

“Hey, Little Boss!” Bull said, holding up a tankard that smelled like something stronger than ale. “Glad you could make it.”

“Hi, Bull.” Elizabeth nodded toward the drink when she got her second strong whiff. “What’s in that?”

“Don’t ask,” Krem told her.

“Oh, come on!” Bull glanced down with a chuckle, handing it to her. “Try it. You might like it.”

Cassandra snorted. _“That_ I doubt.”

Josephine began shuffling the cards. Elizabeth took an experimental sip from Bull’s tankard and nearly spit it out. It was like swallowing vinegar and fire at the same time. Her eyes watered as she coughed.

“Maker’s _breath._ I think I’ll pass. Is there… is there ale anywhere?”

Bull laughed, taking the tankard back, as Krem handed her a mug from the other side of the table.

“Keep it,” he told her. “I just got a new round.” He turned to Bull. “Honestly, I don’t know how you can stand that stuff, chief.”

“There aren’t a lot choices down here. Big guy like me would have to drink a _lot_ of ale to even feel a buzz.” After some more chatting, Josephine began dealing the cards, starting with Leliana, who was seated on her right. Bull lowered his voice, dipping his head next to Elizabeth’s. “By the way, I’ve been meaning to talk to you. How you holding up?”

Elizabeth took a long sip of ale to clear the taste of vinegar from her mouth. “Holding up?” she asked.

“Yeah,” Bull said. “I know it’s tough the first time.”

“First time,” Elizabeth echoed, confused.

“You know,” Bull said. “I mean with Solas being gone, and all that.”

“Oh,” Elizabeth said.

“Cullen says he recommended letters. Good thought. But it kinda works better if you plan it out ahead of time, so you don’t have to worry about Nightingale reading everything.” He shrugged, chuckling again. “I guess that depends on the content, huh? Dorian likes to get a little _creative._ ”

Elizabeth could feel her face turn red, and not from what Bull was implying. _Maker’s breath._ People were _discussing_ her relationship with Solas. Independently. While she wasn’t there.

“One gold,” Leliana said, tossing a coin into the center of the table.

“Ooh, a _bold_ opening,” Josephine said, grinning. “I call.”

“I’m fine,” Elizabeth managed to whisper back to Bull after the initial wave of embarrassment washed over her “Really. But, uh… thank you. For your concern. It’s very sweet.”

Bull shrugged. “Just let me know if you want to talk.”

Elizabeth nodded faintly, her ears still burning. _He’s a spy_ , she reminded herself. _Of course he would figure it out._

The thought made her shoot a suspicious glance at Leliana, but Leliana’s narrowed eyes were on Josephine, one hand drumming on the table.

“I call as well,” Cullen said. Cassandra was next, and soon everyone was in.

Sera won the first hand, and the second as well, proving herself a very sore winner. Josephine won the third and fourth, after which Dagna found herself in possession of most of Sera’s winning. To several peoples’ disappointment, she decided to be magnanimous and gave about half of it back.  

Elizabeth began to relax as the night went on. She even spoke a few times, with Bull clapping her on the shoulder whenever she made a joke. Eventually, someone said something about the Oasis, and her thoughts drifted. She wondered what Solas might be doing that evening.

Sera kicked her in the shin, and Elizabeth yelped, startled.

“Stop it, you,” Sera said.

“What?” Elizabeth asked.

“With the moony eyes and the _thoughts_ and all. Tonight’s about cards, so you can just forget what’s-his-face.”

“I’m sorry?” Elizabeth asked.

Sera went on. “No, you aren’t. It’s fine, yeah? Look at your cards.” She waggled her eyebrows, her smile turning a little smug. “And just think when he gets back. You know what they say.” She giggled, elbowing Dagna. “Spending time apart makes banging bits all the nicer. Or something.”

Elizabeth’s eyes widened. _“What?”_

Cassandra let out a noise, shaking her head at her cards. “I believe what Sera is _trying_ to say is, _‘Absence makes the heart grow fonder’._ A fine sentiment, and good advice. When put the right way.”

“Same thing,” Sera said, rolling her eyes. Elizabeth’s blush had returned in full force. She probably looked more like a rage demon than a person. Sera didn’t seem to notice. “Except I don’t sound like a friggin Chanter when I say it, do I? Anyway, they’re home in a week, you can go all moony then.”

“Please. Elizabeth can be exactly as moony as she likes,” Josephine said briskly, clearly knowing what they were all discussing. She paused, her eyes flicking to the pile of money on the table. “As long as she tells us whether she calls.”

“I, uh,” she said. She swallowed, noting that her mug was empty. She threw down her cards. “I fold. I need more ale.”

She pushed herself away from the table and walked swiftly toward the bar. A hand landed on her shoulder before she could order, and she looked up to see Cullen.

“I’m sorry,” he said, sincerely. “I thought it would be good for you to be… social.”

Suddenly it clicked. “Jane put you up to this.” Cullen shrugged his admission. Elizabeth rubbed her arm, letting out a chuckle. “Of course she did. It’s fine. I just didn’t realize how… obvious it was to everyone, I suppose.”

Cullen chuckled. “I know the feeling. If it’s any consolation, Sera was much more… illustrative in her advice to me.”

That earned a full laugh from Elizabeth. She flagged down the barmaid finally and sighed as she waited for her ale to be filled. “So. Does _everyone_ know?” she said, turning back to Cullen. He opened his mouth, but was interrupted.

“No,” Cole said from beside her. She jumped. He was sitting on the bar beside her, his legs swinging. He considered, carefully. “Blackwall doesn’t know.”

She winced. “Thom,” she corrected. For some Maker-forsaken reason, her sister had decided to show mercy on the man they’d once called Blackwall and freed him once he’d turned himself in to the Orlesian government. Jane insisted that he seemed sincere about changing. Since he’d returned, he’d stayed in the stables, and the others largely avoided him. “Thom doesn’t know, you mean,” she added.

Cole nodded. “Thom. Yes. _An old name, made new.”_ He paused, thinking. “He’s… beginning to suspect, though.”

Cullen snorted. Elizabeth couldn’t hold back another dry laugh, placing her head in her hands.

“Perfect,” she said as the barmaid slipped her mug in front of her. “Of course he is.”

 _So much for discretion_ , she thought.

Cullen nodded toward the table. “Ready to head back?”

Elizabeth took a breath. “Sure,” she said.

  



	6. Harrowing

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I mentioned to buttsonthebeach that I was pretty sure Lizzie got a Pride Demon at her Harrowing a while back. As a result, she gave me this prompt:
> 
>  
> 
> _Prompt: Lizzie's Harrowing, perhaps as told to Solas? I want *all* the irony of which type of demon she faced..._

Solas knew less about the Circle than any mage Elizabeth had ever met. Any _person,_ really. She tried to keep in mind that almost everyone she’d ever known either lived in a Circle at some point or was raised within the Chantry, but it still surprised her how sheltered he was.

One evening, in the Exalted Plains, he asked Hawke how she’d managed to evade templars. Elizabeth glanced up from her dinner, then ducked her head, trying to appear casually interested. Hawke had set aside the last of her fish in favor of an apple. She gave him a curious look as she took a bite.

“Same way you do, I imagine,” she said, still chewing.

Solas raised an eyebrow. “I think not,” he replied. _“I_ did not move to a city with a large templar presence at the age of twenty.”

“Twenty-two,” Hawke replied. She swallowed her food. “And no. You didn’t. _You_ joined a religious organization led by a Seeker of Truth and a former Knight-Commander at the age of--.” She broke off, squinting. “How old are you exactly?”

Solas paused, and then gave her a faint smile. “A fair point,” he said. “In my defense, there was a breach in the Veil.”

“And in mine, there was a Blight.”

He nodded, conceding. “Yes.” He took a bite of fish, chewed, and swallowed. “I am still curious. It is true that there are many templars in the Inquisition. However, I am not evading them. When I was, I did so by avoiding populated areas. Like Kirkwall.” He studied her. “There was a time when you were not open about your status as an apostate in Kirkwall.”

“There was,” Hawke said. “Almost five years, in fact. But it became rather obvious when I electrocuted a few Qunari in front of half the city. Thankfully, Qunari trumps mage on the Chantry list of _‘things we really, really hate.’_ ” She shot a dark look at Varric. “Word spread quite quickly after that. Somehow. One way or another.”

“Oh, you loved it,” Varric said, unconcerned.

Hawke gave a dramatic sigh. “My plan after that was to settle into a quiet retirement--”

Varric laughed. “Yeah, right.”

“--but someone had the great idea to write a _book_ about the whole thing--”

“Sure, blame it on the book that was published _after_ you fled the city.” Varric held up a hand, palm high. “Hand to the Maker, Hawke. I didn’t publish anything most people didn’t already know. I just gave you a sympathetic tint. It was supposed to get the Chantry off your back. Some people were calling for an Exalted March.”

“Oh, to get the _Chantry_ off my back. Right. That worked out perfectly, then. Tell me again, why were you kidnapped and held prisoner by the Right Hand of the Divine?”

He winced. “Okay, yeah. But they didn’t want to _kill_ you anymore.”

“True,” Hawke allowed. She took another bite of her apple.

“So, you have never been in a Circle,” Solas said, returning to his original topic. It was more a statement than a question.

“No,” Hawke said. Varric made a noise of disagreement and she pursed her lips. “Something to add, Tethras?”

“I seem to recall spending a lot of time at the Gallows,” Varric said.

Hawke rolled her eyes. “That’s not what he means. I was never imprisoned, or given a Harrowing or a phylactery, or any of that nonsense.” She scoffed. “Imprisonment, demons, and blood magic. _Definitely_ what Andraste wanted.”

“A… phylactery?” Solas asked.

Hawke studied him. “Boy, you weren’t kidding when you said you avoid populated areas, were you? Vial of blood. The Chantry makes one for every mage they can get their hands on.”

Solas frowned. “So they can track them,” he realized. His gaze moved from Hawke and Elizabeth, his brow furrowed. “That is what you meant when you said they had your blood.”

Elizabeth felt her cheeks warm at the reference to their argument in the Fade. “Ah--yes,” she said. She tilted her head, curious. “You’ve really never heard of a phylactery before?”

“I….” Solas paused, looking at his plate. “I gathered that such a method might be used. But I had not heard it referenced by name, no.”

“You know what a Harrowing is?” Hawke asked.

Solas didn’t answer immediately. “Yes,” he said, looking back up. “The process of forcing a mage into the Fade to withstand an encounter with a corrupted spirit. That, I am familiar with.”

“Chantry’s worst kept secret,” Hawke said with a dark laugh.

After a moment, Solas’s eyes returned to Elizabeth. “What was it like?”

Elizabeth’s eyebrows shot up, her lips parting slightly. She was saved from replying by Varric.

“Damn, Chuckles,” he said. Solas looked confused, so he explained. “You can’t just ask a Circle mage about their Harrowing. It’s a pretty personal question.”

Hawke agreed. “Even Anders wouldn’t discuss his, ever, and he never shut up about abuses in the Circle.” She gestured with a hand, as if to illustrate something large. “The demon--it tries to get into your head. Most of them use your own thoughts against you. So… it reveals a lot about the person. You know. Their, uh. Weaknesses. Vulnerabilities. That sort of thing.”

Solas blinked. “Oh,” he said, understanding. “Of course.” He glanced at Elizabeth before dropping his gaze, and for a moment, she thought he might be have turned a little pink. “My apologies.”

“It’s fine,” Elizabeth said. She hesitated. Truth be told, she did not mind any of the three people in front of her knowing about her Harrowing. But she did not like the idea of sharing it here, in the open, over a friendly meal. “It’s… I’d rather not discuss it.”

“Of course,” he said again.

There was an awkward silence that she felt the need to dispel. She fished for a topic. The thought of Harrowings made her think of Ellendra, and she bit her lip.

“I… do have a story about a Harrowing, actually,” she said, unable to keep the smile from her voice. The others looked up expectantly. Varric discarded his plate, pulling out his flask and taking a small sip. “I had a friend at Ostwick,” she went on. “A rather devious friend.” She paused, realizing she would have to change Ellendra’s name for anonymity. “… Charlotte. Our First Enchanter when she was growing up was this very strict, very religious older man named Arthur. I was too young to know him well, but from what I’ve heard, he was a bit of an asshole. He was more severe on women than he was on men. And he had….” Elizabeth paused, trying to find the words. “A reputation with the younger girls. Not a good one.” At the look of horror on Hawke’s face, she rushed to add, holding a finger in the air, “No, he never touched. But he looked. And some of them were _young._ Charlotte could tell he _would_ do more, if he thought he could get away with it. When he taught my class, he made the girls he liked sit in the front row, saying, _‘my eyesight isn’t as good as it used to be.”_ Elizabeth frowned at the memory. “I was nine.”

“Creep,” Varric muttered.

“Yes. When El-- _Charlotte_ turned sixteen, they made her do her Harrowing. She faced a desire demon. She was friends with a templar at the time, and he let slip that the First Enchanter had told _all_ the knights in the Circle what kind of demon she faced. Apparently, he went on and on about how they needed to be careful of _‘girls like her’_. Charlotte was _furious._ So she decided to take him down.

“She recruited two of her friends--apprentices who hadn’t had their Harrowing yet--to get caught passing a note in his class. In it, they referenced her Harrowing, and suggested that the desire demon had shown up as _Arthur himself._ And that she wouldn’t mind such an encounter in real life. Over the next week, she began to throw him bashful glances and look at him seductively when no one was looking. Sure enough, Arthur began to try and spend time with her alone. On the way back from Chantry services one morning, she asked him sweetly if he would look over her notes on creation magic and took him to an empty classroom. She suggested he might more _comfortable_ if he had fewer clothes. He complied.” Elizabeth paused dramatically. “And then, she screamed bloody murder.”

“Knew it!” Hawke said.

“The templars were still in the hallway from services. Three of them came running to find what appeared to be the sixty-year-old First Enchanter in a _very_ compromising state of disarray with a teenaged mage.”

“Fantastic,” Hawke laughed.

“What’d they do to him?” Varric asked.

“He was stripped of his position and sent off to the White Spire,” Elizabeth said. “I don’t know what happened to him after that.” She considered, using her fork to move the food around on her plate. “This was twenty years ago now. I doubt he lived to see the rebellion. But if he did, he was probably at the Conclave.”

The group went silent at the mention of the Conclave.

“Did you know a lot of people there?” Hawke asked, not unkindly.

“Some,” Elizabeth replied. “Most of the people I knew--.” She broke off with a shrug. “They never went to Andoral's Reach. I wasn’t part of a particularly rebellious group of people.”

“With the exception of Charlotte, evidently,” Solas observed dryly.

Elizabeth thought of Ellendra and her relationship with Vivienne with a sick feeling in her stomach. “Charlotte wasn’t rebellious like that,” she said finally. “And anyway, I know she wasn’t at the Temple.”

“Good,” Hawke said, standing. She wiped her hands on her pants, heading back to where the scouts had left a tray of food. She grabbed another apple. “The world needs more Charlottes.” Elizabeth was silent, looking at her plate. Hawke glanced over her shoulder, holding up a plum. “Trevelyan, you want?”

“Yes, please,” Elizabeth replied, relieved to move on. She put her plate aside. Hawke tossed her the fruit and she caught it with both hands. “Thank you.”

“Any other good Charlotte stories?” Hawke asked as she returned.

“Oh, _several,”_ Elizabeth replied with a grin.

The fire grew low, and the sky grew dark. Eventually, Varric grumbled something about _‘letters to burn’_ and the Guild before retreating to his tent. Hawke left soon after, giving Elizabeth a significant look that she ignored. The embers crackled between her and Solas. She raised her hand, and the flames returned, a little stronger.

“I am truly sorry,” Solas said after a long silence.

Elizabeth looked up, confused. “About what?”

“My question. I should not have presumed--”

Elizabeth stopped him with a wave. “You couldn’t have known.” He did not look mollified, so she gave him a soft smile. “Really. I don’t mind you asking questions. And--well, maybe one day, I’ll tell you. But it… wasn’t the time.”

Solas weighed her words, looking down at his hands. He met her gaze after a moment, curiosity in his eyes. “Then, if you do not mind me asking--how common is Desire for a Harrowing? I would have thought such a spirit would be considered too dangerous.”

Elizabeth’s smile turned sad. “Nothing’s considered too dangerous for a Harrowing. Besides, the templars don’t pick the demon. It has to come to _you.”_

“Of course,” Solas said, his eyes wandering in thought. “Whatever would be particularly tempting. With Dreamers so rare, spirits must sense the mages’ presence from a great distance.” He glanced at her. “Still. I assume the same demons would linger near the Circle, with such regular activity to keep them interested. Was Charlotte the only mage you knew who met Desire?”

Elizabeth watched him, a slow smirk spreading over her face. “Solas. Are you asking if I had a desire demon?”

He blinked, shocked, then recoiled as if he’d been pushed. “No! That was _not_ my intention--”

“I’m teasing,” she interrupted, laughing, pleased with the flush that had appeared on his face. “But no, you’re right. Most of us had the same three demons. Myself included.” She held up a hand in defense. “And no, before you _do_ ask--I didn’t have Desire.”

Solas didn’t speak. She knew he was holding back the question, so she answered, looking away.

“Mine was Pride.”

Solas was silent. She could feel his eyes on her, but couldn’t meet his gaze. She waited a few seconds, then shook her head, clearing it. “Anyway. I should head to bed.” She finally looked as she stood and caught a line of concern between his eyes before he smoothed it, his expression neutral.

“Indeed. It is late.” But he did not make to stand up.

“Good night, Solas,” she said.

“Good night,” he replied.

She went to her tent, glancing over her shoulder once before entering. Solas was staring at the fire, a hint of concern still lingering on his face. She wondered if it was the discussion of the Harrowing that he was upset about, and hoped it wasn’t because of his question. Brushing it from her mind, she went into the tent and quietly began to ready herself for sleep.


	7. First

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Tress13 requested:
> 
>  
> 
> _Pssst - Kitty X Delrin fluff? Is that a thing I can ask for? Maybe right after Kitty joins the inquisition? :3_

  _9:31 Dragon - Ostwick_

 

“Ten… nine… eight… seven…!”

Kitty ran toward her grandfather’s stables as Denny counted down. She glanced around the huge building, her heart thudding in her chest. At the last moment, she darted toward the saddle stand in the corner and dove, sliding under it. She hoped the heavy leather saddle on top was enough to keep her hidden.

“One!” she heard from a distance. There was a pause, then: “Here I come!”

She stayed completely still, her ears straining to catch something other than the buzz of the flies and the soft huffs of her grandfather's’ horses. The smell of hay and animal sweat filled the air. She scrunched her nose, hoping it wouldn’t cling to her clothes. Mama would _not_ be pleased if she came in for dinner smelling of horse.

After what felt like an hour, she heard voices, arguing. Her chest tingled with excitement, the thrill of hiding threatening to burst out of her with a giggle. She bit her lip to contain it.

“I swear, one of them went this way,” she heard her cousin Johnny say as he entered the barn.

So her oldest cousin had been found already and now was helping Denny. That must have rankled. John Trevelyan was the eldest of their group at thirteen, followed by Mary, who was twelve. Johnny’s brother Bertram was eleven, Denny and Kitty were nine, and Lydia was the youngest at seven.

“Which one?” Denny asked.

“I don’t know, Denny,” Johnny said, exasperated. “As if I can tell the three of them apart.”

“They’re _your_ cousins,” Denny reminded him.

“Yellow-haired pains in my arse, that’s what they are.”

“Johnny!” Denny exclaimed. “One of them’s _in_ here.”

“Good,” Johnny said. “You hear that, Lydia?” He raised his voice. “You’re a YELLOW-HAIRED PAIN IN MY ARSE.”

“Stop!” Denny exclaimed.

“Why?”

“You’re being mean,” he said. “Besides, I found Lydia. She’s waiting by the poplar tree. If one of them’s in here, it’s Mary, or Kitty.”

“Right. The prissy one, or the stupid one.”

Kitty’s mouth fell open. There was no question which sister Johnny meant to be her. Her chest began to burn. The tight grip of her arms was no longer just to keep herself small.

“Come on,” Denny said sharply. “That’s not nice.”

She felt her face grow hot. Johnny thought she was stupid. He’d _called_ her stupid.

 _Stupid._ Was that what people thought of her? The worst part was that the word rang true. She was the slowest reader of her sisters. And she was always falling for Johnny’s ridiculous claims and lies. Even Lydia was quicker than her when it came to Johnny’s stories.

 _No,_ Kitty realized. That wasn't the worst part. The worst part was that Denny had heard him. Denny had _heard_ him, and hadn’t corrected him. Denny, who was her _best_ friend. Even though she only saw him in the summers, when her family stayed with her grandfather. Denny, who was the smartest boy she’d ever met.

Denny, whose eyes were as green as the very first sprouts of spring. _That_ was something she’d only noticed recently. Kitty felt a drop of shame slid down to her stomach.

Thinking about Denny’s dumb eyes made her feel sick. Suddenly, the hiding game seemed like the most childish thing in the world. All she wanted to do was be inside with her grandfather and Mama and Jane. She rolled out from under the saddle stand and stood, brushing off her dress.

 _“You’re_ the stupid one,” she snapped at Johnny, who spun to see her, surprised. Her voice wavered a little. She blinked rapidly, but no tears fell. “You’re _thirteen_ and still playing this _dumb_ game with _dumb_ children like me and Lydia. I hope you choke on a bone and Bertram becomes the heir, because _you_ don’t deserve anything.”

Johnny stared at her, speechless. She felt that this counted as a small victory and stormed out of the stables, her hands clenched into fists. She only made it a few yards when she heard Denny behind her.

“Kitty! Wait! Kitty!”

Kitty took a few more defiant steps. Then she stopped, clenching her jaw. Denny hadn’t done anything wrong, really, and it was almost autumn. Her family was leaving in just a few days. Soon, it would be a whole year before they saw each other again. She couldn’t risk souring things between them.

Denny caught up with her quickly, his gangly legs much faster than they used to be. He was as tall as her this year, which made it all the easier to meet his gaze. She crossed her arms, waiting. Denny clearly hadn’t thought he’d catch her. He opened his mouth, then shut it again.

“What?” she asked curtly.

“Where are you going?” he asked.

“To the castle,” she said.

“Oh,” Denny said. He looked away, pausing, then added, “You--you should stay for another round.”

“Why?” she asked in a bitter tone. She toed a circle in the ground and frowned at her foot. “So Johnny can make fun of me again?”

“No,” Denny said. “He’s an idiot.” She hesitated, and he fidgeted with his collar. “Please? You’re leaving soon, and it’s-- it's always more fun when you're here.” He sounded sheepish. “I’ll miss you,” he admitted.

Kitty felt the weight in her chest melt. She raised her eyes to his, catching the earnest look in all that green. She thought for a moment, then kicked dirt over the circle she’d drawn. “Alright," she relented. "I’ll stay for a little.”

Denny gave her a quick, boyish grin. They strolled back to the poplar tree together in comfortable silence, Kitty running over his words in her head. _I’ll miss you._ He’d said it before, but never like _that_ , like he was nervous and confessing something much more private. Never in a way that made her feel a soft glow in her chest.

Mary, Johnny, Bertram and Lydia were waiting for them. Johnny glared at her.

“Look who’s back,” he said, clearly still annoyed. “Done with the hysterics?”

“Don’t speak to her like that,” Denny warned him.

Johnny cocked an eyebrow, then snorted. He stepped forward. “Oh? Or what, Dog Lord? Are you going to maul me?”

Denny narrowed his eyes, stepping forward himself, but before he could reply, Bertram interrupted. He held up his hands as he walked between the both of them.

“Woah there,” he said, as if taming two horses. “Let’s all take a breath.” He looked at his brother. “He’s a child, Johnny. It’s not worth it.”

Johnny scowled a moment longer, then relaxed, moving back. “Fine,” he said. He glanced between Kitty and Denny once, then fixed a stare somewhere behind them.

The tension bled out of the group. Bertram squinted at the sun. “I think it’s almost dinner, but maybe we can sneak in one more round. Mary, you’re seeker again.”

Lydia jerked her chin in the air, pouting. “No! Mary was the seeker two rounds ago!”

“And?” Bertram asked.  

 _“I_ want to be the seeker,” Lydia said.

“It’s always the person who was found last,” Bertram explained, not unkindly. “And Mary was last this time.”

“That’s not fair,” Lydia cried. “I didn't get to be seeker!”

“Because you were never found last.”

Lydia kicked the ground with petulant flair. “I _never_ get to the be the seeker!”

“So hide better,” Johnny snapped at her.

Lydia’s face screwed up in anger, her eyes going sharp like daggers.

“It’s fine,” Mary said, rolling her eyes. “I don’t mind if Lydia takes my turn.”

“She can't,” John said, gesturing with one hand. “That’s not how the rules work.”

“Oh, come off it, Johnny,” Bertram said. “If Mary’s fine with it, who cares?”

Johnny pursed his lips, crossing his arms. He shook his head and went back to staring away from them all.

Bertram watched his brother with careful eyes before turning back to Lydia. “Alright,” he said gently. “You’re seeker now. Cover your eyes. No, _cover_ them.” He sighed. _“Lydia._ I can see you peeking.”

“I'm not!” Lydia quite obviously lied.

“Turn her around so she’s facing the tree,” Kitty suggested.

Bertram nodded. Lydia pouted again as he complied, taking her shoulders and turning until her back was toward them.

“Now count down from sixty, and we'll go hide,” Bertram said.

Lydia hesitated. “Um….”

“Oh, for fuck’s sake,” Johnny muttered, eliciting a soft gasp from Mary and a cringe from Denny. “Can’t you count?”

“Of course I can!” Lydia exclaimed, turning to scowl at him. “But backwards is harder!”

“Put your hands back on your eyes!” Johnny said. When Lydia stuck her tongue out at him, he threw up his hands, groaning. “This is ridiculous. She can't be seeker.”

“Yes I _can.”_

“Sure you can,” Bertram assured her, stopping Johnny. He looked at his brother. “I’ll stay and help her. How does that sound?”

Thankfully, Johnny and Lydia agreed. The two cousins covered their eyes and Bertram began counting backwards. Denny ran toward the pond beyond the stable, Mary darted toward the stream, and Johnny went for the forest that bordered their grandfather’s estate. Kitty hesitated, then hurried toward the stables again. They wouldn’t expect her to go to the same place twice.

This time when she got in, she climbed up a ladder to the rafters. Balancing carefully, she walked to the edge, where a little alcove sat. It was where her grandfather’s workers dried the tall grass as it became hay. It was empty now, but the scent of a damp, fresh field lingered.

When she ducked behind the panel, she was shocked to see Denny there. His mouth dropped open as she blinked at him.

“Six...five...!” Bertram’s voice rang out.

 _“Four-three-two-one_ -HERE WE COME!” Lydia shouted.  

“Get down!” Denny hissed, tugging Kitty's arm. She scrambled next to him. They both slid back until they were no longer visible from the ground. “What are you doing? You hid here last time!”

“I know,” she whispered back with a shrug. “I thought… no one ever hides near the same place twice when we play. It might throw them off.”

Denny’s lips twitched into a smile. “Ha,” he breathed. “That was clever.”

Kitty felt herself flush, looking away. He seemed to realize what he’d said, and shifted a little further from her, pulling up his legs. They sat together in silence for a while. Denny tilted his head, listening for Bertram and Lydia, while Kitty bit her lip and looked at her knees.

“Denny,” she said finally, in a low voice. “Do _you_ think I’m stupid?”

Denny gawked at her. “No!” he said, a little too loudly. He covered his mouth and she shushed him, leaning closer. When the only reaction was the snort of a horse, they both relaxed and he lowered his hand. “No,” he repeated, softer. His green eyes were fixed on hers, as earnest as they’d been before, when he said he’d miss her. “I could never think of _you_ as stupid. You’re….”

He trailed off without finishing his sentence. Kitty felt her heart thumping again, and this time it had nothing to do with the game. _I'll miss you,_ echoed in her head, over and over. They stared at each other for a long moment. Before she could overthink it, she took a quick breath and leaned forward, pressing her lips to his. It was only an instant, a moment of soft pressure and warmth, and then she pulled back. Denny’s eyes were wide as he stared at her in shock. She stared back, suddenly horrified at herself.

 _Stupid,_ she chastised herself. _stupid, stupid, stupid._ It had been such a bad idea. She didn’t deserve anything like this. She felt the urge to apologize or run away.

“I--” she began.

“Children!” an adult voice rang out. Kitty recognized it as her grandfather’s housekeeper, an elf named Hilde. “It’s time to come in.” When there was no immediate response she added, “No dawdling! Your grandpa wants you all scrubbed up before dinner!”

Kitty felt her heart falling. “I need to go,” she said.

“I know,” Denny said. He stood, holding out a hand to help her up. She took it tentatively. He held it for a fraction of a second longer than necessary, then turned back to the ladder.

At the bottom, they stood for a few seconds, not talking.

“Children!” Hilde’s voice echoed again. “Come on!”

Kitty took a deep breath. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have--kissed you. I just--”

“Oh!” Denny said quickly. His cheeks darkened. “No! Don’t-- I… didn’t mind it.”

Kitty’s dread turned into something far lighter and she looked at him, amazed. “Oh.” She licked her lips. “Good.” She paused. “Will… will you come by tomorrow?”

“It depends on what my uncle says,” Denny said with real regret. “I’d like to. But he needs me at home this week.”

“If you can’t, and we don’t see each other….” She hesitated. “You will write, won’t you?”

“Of course,” Denny said instantly. His boyish smile was back. She may have been floating. “As long as you write back.” He shrugged. “It’s only nine months until next summer. And maybe you’ll visit in the spring, like you did that one year?”

“Maybe,” she agreed with a hopeful nod.

“CHILDREN!” the shout came again.

“Well,” Denny said awkwardly, “goodbye, Kitty.”

“Goodbye,” Kitty said. She hesitated, then spun on her heels and ran back toward the house. All through her run, she thought of the kiss. All through her run and her bath, and dinner,  _I'll miss you_ hung in her head. She reminded herself that nine months was not forever.

 

 

~~~

 

That winter, Grandfather collapsed while walking the ramparts. He never woke up. Denny was at the funeral, but Kitty hardly knew what to say to anyone, her grief was so fresh. She hadn't thought through what would happen. 

Her family stopped visiting the castle. At least Denny still wrote her letters.

Two years later, Denny moved back to Ferelden. His father gave him to the Templar Order, in a move that shocked no one but Kitty. "The Barrises have been trying to tie themselves more closely with the Chantry," Father explained when they news came up at dinner. Kitty just stared at her plate. 

The letters became few and far between.

A few years after that, the chantry in Kirkwall exploded. War broke out between the mages and the templars. The Circles began to fall, one by one by one. Lizzie came home. 

And Denny’s letters ceased altogether.

One day, months before the Conclave, Lydia tossed a book at Kitty, who caught it, surprised.

“Your boyfriend's in a chapbook,” Lydia said with a coy smile.

Kitty’s eyes flicked over the cover, her heart skipping a beat at the half-familiar features of the man drawn on the front. The  _man._ Denny was no longer that sheepish boy, all formality and charm. He had gone out into the world and _done_ things. Saved people. Killed demons. Risen in the ranks of the Order, of the Chantry. 

He'd probably kissed other people, she realized bitterly. She hadn't. 

They may have been the same age, but Kitty knew she'd barely changed since that day in the stable. It had been easy to ignore how many years had passed. In so many ways, _she_ was still a child.

The man with green eyes stared back at her from the cover of the chapbook, as if he disapproved. 

“He’s not my boyfriend,” Kitty said in a hard voice. She threw the chapbook back at Lydia, missing her entirely. Lydia picked it up from the ground. To Kitty's surprise, she gave her a sympathetic look. Kitty rubbed her forehead, looking pointedly away. Lydia left her alone without another word. 

All the other girls Kitty knew had moved on from their first crushes. That was the _normal_ thing to do. First crushes were a childish thing, not deep or meaningful, or even real; they were practice for how to act when one grew older. That was all. Maker, Lydia was chatting about a new girl almost every week, and she was two years _younger_ than Kitty.

But Kitty didn’t move on. When she thought of her future, when she thought of safety and joy, she still dreamed of green eyes and the scent of fresh hay.

She wondered if she could steal the chapbook back from Lydia.

 _“Stupid,”_ she told herself quietly.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So it wasn't _that_ fluffy and it obviously wasn't after she joined the Inquisition. But I will try to do another down the line, I promise! I just needed to get a feel for them first :)


	8. Impressive

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prompt from buttsonthebeach:
> 
>  
> 
> _Prompt: Jane and Cullen training together. Bonus points if they are already together and Cullen is openly appreciative of that warrior bod ;)_

Jane knew from the start that, objectively speaking, Cullen Rutherford was an attractive man. It was hard _not_ to notice, what with his amber eyes staring at her every day across the war table. But then again, all three of the Inquisition advisers (four, if one counted Cassandra) were striking. That was common knowledge. Jane herself was often called a pretty girl, but even _she_ felt a little plain next to the elegant ambassador, the poised spymaster, and the handsome commander. Ellendra would later joke that the whole lot of them should try batting their eyelashes at the Breach and see what happened.

The first time Jane realized she was _attracted_ to Cullen, she was lying on her back, blinking at the sky above Haven, the air completely knocked out of her lungs.

A panicked Cullen appeared above her. “Jane?” he asked, then flushed. “I mean--ah, Herald. Are you alright?”

Jane stared at him. She wasn’t sure if it was the angle, or if it was the red in his cheeks, or if it was the endearing way he’d slipped and said her first name, but suddenly those amber eyes were… captivating. Alluring. She wanted nothing more than to see them a million ways--smiling, or hardened, or curious, or unshielded.

Or sharp with desire.

“Oh,” Jane breathed.

Cullen’s brow lowered further. “Herald?” he asked again.

“I’m… fine,” Jane said, sitting up.

Cullen extended a hand. Jane took it, and could not help the warm jolt his grip gave her, even through both of their gloves. Then he released her far too soon.

“I must apologize,” he said. “That last blow--.” He trailed off.

“It’s alright,” Jane said. She smiled. “I should have had my shield up. As you’ve told me in the past.”

Cullen rubbed his neck. Even _that_ was attractive. “Well. Yes. But I should not have used so much force….”

“How else will I learn?” Jane asked with a shrug. “This _is_ training, after all.”

She picked up her practice sword and shield again and faced him. There was an awkward silence; he clearly did not want to risk a repeat performance, while she stood ready. Her eyes traced his form. It was mostly covered by his uniform, but his sleeves tightened around his biceps in a rather distracting way. Maker, he was just her type, too--all business and straightforward, not an inch of him playing the Game. Now that she’d _realized,_  she was surprised she hadn’t noticed sooner.

“Really, Cullen, it’s alright,” she said out loud. “I’d rather get hit a few times than be underskilled.”

Cullen relaxed a little. “I suppose that’s true.” He glanced around. “Maker. Every time I land a blow, I feel like someone is about to come upbraid me for hitting the Herald of Andraste.”

Jane’s eyes darted down at her title, but her smile stayed. “If it’s any consolation, it’s _usually_ the Herald’s fault for not dodging properly.” Cullen laughed, and Jane felt a little thrill run through her. She met his eyes. “You’d think Andraste would choose someone a little more impressive.”

Cullen’s smile faded, his expression turning earnest. “No. No one thinks that. I--.” He stopped, clearing his throat. “That is--you always impress me.”

It felt like he’d knocked the air from her lungs for a second time. If he’d met her eyes, he’d see them widen. But instead, he was staring in the middle distance, avoiding her gaze.

Was he--?

Did he--?

Jane shook her head, clearing it. “Thank you,” she said softly. “I appreciate that.”

Another awkward silence lapsed. Cullen straightened, bringing up his sword. “Ready for another round?”

“Of course,” she said quickly.

“Good,” he said. He smirked. “And this time, keep your shield up.”

 

~~~

 

It was their second time training at Skyhold. Cassandra had gone west to the Oasis, investigating the shards they’d found with Solas, so the two of them  were once again left to themselves. The first session had been--awkward, to say the least. She still wasn’t sure what had happened between her trip to the Storm Coast and Redcliffe, but clearly it was _something._ He was professional with her when he had to be, but otherwise he avoided her entirely, and in the rare instance where they had physical contact--during training, or when their shoulder brushed at the war table--he looked almost ill. _Something_ had changed for him.

Things had not changed for Jane. She still thought of him when she dressed in the morning. She compared him mentally to every person she met, man or woman. She felt a mixture of joy and sorrow when he entered the room, watching his shoulders tense in that now familiar way.

In short, she loved him.

A dark thought once occurred to her, an excuse her mother often used when suitors had left Jane in the past--that her sister was proof of the magic in her blood, and any child she bore could be a mage--but she did not let it linger. She thought too well of him to believe that.

Cullen was late, and the courtyard was more or less empty. He insisted on training first thing. His schedule became too chaotic later in the day to allow for anything else. The morning mist had not fully dissipated. When Jane touched the ivy outside the forge near the tavern, it was cold and wet. She decided to start without him, selecting one of the training dummies that Harritt had placed in the yard. She breathed in when she hefted her sword, and out when she swung, just as Cullen had trained her.

She’d begun using her shield as a weapon as well. Ramming forward, she slammed her body into one of the dummies, shield first. Then she swung back, bringing her wooden sword down in a curve. The blow landed, making a _thwack_ against the thick, damp fabric of the training dummy.

Breathing heavily, she stepped back. As she did, she became aware of a presence behind her. Cullen was standing near the tavern, watching her. There was an open, almost proud look in his amber eyes before he shielded it. He looked at the ground, hesitant, then began to walk toward her.

“I suppose you hardly need me training you at this point,” Cullen said.

“That’s not true,” Jane said quickly.

The corner of Cullen’s mouth rose in a wry smile. The sight of it made Jane's heart rise. He barely ever smiled at her nowadays.

“It may be. You’ve learned these skills well. We were lucky enough that you had some experience--but to go from barely using a sword to being such a capable warrior in a matter of months is remarkable. You should be proud of yourself. I only hope--.” He stopped, his feet also coming to a halt. His smile disappeared. “I only hope you continue to use these skills after you defeat Corypheus.

Jane’s chest grew warm and tight as she looked at him. He sounded sad in a way, and she didn’t know why. “Thank you,” she said softly. “You make it sound like such an accomplishment.”

“It is,” he said, meeting her eye.

Jane’s cheeks were hot, despite the cool mist. “I’ve only done what anyone else would,” she admitted. “I’m not sure it’s _that_ impressive.”

“That is not true,” Cullen said firmly, taking another step forward. He seemed to catch himself, and stopped. “I--. What I mean to say is that... you still impress me.”

Jane had to look away. They stood in silence for a moment, while her emotions and confusion swirled inside of her, begging to burst out. Finally, Cullen cleared his throat and hefted the wooden shield he’d brought onto his arm.

“Come,” he said, his face once again closed off. “We should begin.”

Jane nodded, lifting her sword. She was thankful that soon she’d be fighting, the tension in her muscles good for something. With a grunt, she swung forward. Cullen caught her first hit easily, but when he went to push her back, he left a small opening, and she swung before he could correct himself. She landed a blow.

“Good,” Cullen said.

“Keep your shield up, Commander,” Jane said with a small smile.

A smile threatened the corners of his amber eyes, but he quashed it. Jane’s heart broke a little. Whatever brief moment of openness they’d had was over. She let him adjust himself and then swung again.

When they finished, a half hour later, they took the practice swords and shields to the courtyard forge. “Good work,” he told her. “You’ve become much better with your shield. I don’t believe I landed a single blow.”

 _That isn’t quite true,_  Jane thought to herself with a frown.

 

~~~

 

After Jane began to take dragon’s blood, and their relationship became _official,_ sparring with Cullen became more of a pastime than a formal activity. One day, Jane pulled on a loose shirt and a vest, content to leave her arms bare. It would grow hot, and her old armor no longer fit the way it was supposed to; Lizzie had only updated the set she wore out in the field. She would bruise if Cullen hit her--but that was the price of comfort.  

The previous day had been filled with politics. Several visiting nobles wanted one-on-one conversations with the Inquisitor, and so she’d been in back-to-back meetings until long after dinner. She’d spent the night in her bedroom, and Cullen in his.

He met her by entrance to the castle. She did notice his amber eyes sweep her body, but then he offered her the crooked smile that never failed to make her heart skip, and she was focused on his face. He fell into step with her and they headed down to the forge, chatting about her upcoming trip to the west.

“I need to bring Solas,” she said, regretfully. They reached the forge. “I’m a little worried about Lizzie.”

Cullen selected their practice swords, handing her one. “Your sister will understand.”

“I just hope she doesn’t get too lonely. She isn’t speaking with Ellendra again.” Jane bit her lip, looking at Cullen. “I don’t suppose you could check on her? Make sure she does something besides smithing?”

Cullen looked amused. “If you’d like,” he said.

“Thank you,” she said sincerely.

They went back to the yard and began sparring. At first, it was light work, but when she made a genuine attempt to hit him, and he batted her away, she felt a little competitive flare in her veins. The dragon’s blood made it easier to tap into that side of herself, the side that truly _enjoyed_ fighting and winning.

“First touch wins?” she suggested.

Cullen nodded his agreement. His sword shot forward. She parried two blows and then ducked, going for his legs. He easily darted away. His own attempt did not hit her, but it cracked against her shield hard enough to put her off-balance. She danced back two steps.

Their fight attracted some attention. Sera, Varric, and Bull opened a window in the tavern, where they were apparently eating breakfast. Jane was sure they were drawing bets. She met Cullen’s amused eyes, and the glint in them made her grin.

He attacked her right side next, which she deflected. She lost ground and was forced back toward the dummies and the wall. She had less room for mobility now, which worried her, but there was no way around him. Her one move was spinning and striking from above, but that left her back exposed for a few seconds, and she did not like her odds.

Still, she’d have the element of surprise.

Throwing caution to the wind, she spun. To her shock, in the five seconds it took to complete the move, Cullen did not attack. He did not even raise his shield. She struck him on the shoulder, with enough force to make him stagger. He let his weapon fall. Her eyes widened.

“Oh!” she exclaimed, dropping her sword. “Sorry--I didn’t think that would land--”

He smiled, rubbing his shoulder. “You needn’t apologize for winning. I do believe that’s the whole point.”

She gave him a look. “You _let_ me win. You didn’t bring your shield up.”

“Ah--no,” he said, looking sheepish. “That was… unintentional.”

Jane lowered her brow, curious, but it was Sera that answered. “Oi!” she called from the window. “Janely. I get it, you’re far in it and all that, but you just lost me five coppers. Next time, don’t go distracting him.”

“Distracting him?” Jane asked, her eyes widening.

Sera made a motion like she was showing off a muscle. “You know. _Shoulders.”_

Jane turned to stare at Cullen, who was now beet red. A smile spread across her face. Her core tingled with something warm and tight.

“You like my shoulders?” she said, her voice low and amused.

“I--,” Cullen stammered. “Well. They’re… impressive.”

“Impressive,” Jane said, smiling.

Cullen shrugged, managing to smile. “Yes.” He brought himself to meet her gaze. “Very. I’ve told you. You _always_ impress me.”

Jane realized then what Cullen had been saying all along, and her heart sang, the feeling reaching all the way down to her toes. She glanced around to see that Sera and the others had returned to eating, the window closed.

“If you’d like,” she told Cullen, lowering her voice, reaching out to twine their hands, “we can head back to your room… and I can try to impress you even _more.”_

Jane was a little surprised at her own boldness. Maybe the dragon’s blood had some unforeseen benefits. Cullen’s face had not yet recovered from his blush, and now, it did not stand a chance of returning to a normal color. He cleared his throat and tugged her hand, pulling her closer to him. His eyes swept the corner or the yard they were in and then he stole a kiss, dipping her head back.

“Is that a yes?” she murmured.

“That is,” Cullen replied with a smile.

This time, they made it up the ladder.

  
  
  
  
  
  
  



	9. Mercy's Eyes Are Blue

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> From buttsonthebeach:
> 
>  
> 
> _Prompt: I'm back to thinking about Adamant because it was one of my favorite chapters. Would you ever do Cullen's POV on that particular night? Or even just he and Jane discussing it?_
> 
>  
> 
> Chapter title from [Saint Simon](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=9uxo2IscrZc) by the Shins.

Cullen had walked into Adamant prepared for the worst. Jane’s report from the Western Approach was clear as day about what the Wardens were up to. At least Rylen was with him. And he'd seen his fair share of blood magic in Kirkwall, for better or worse. It had been a few years, but by the end, he could face a row of abominations and not falter, not become engulfed in old memories.

 _That was before you stopping taking lyrium_ , a quiet, niggling voice said in the back of his head as he led his soldiers to the center of the fortress.

He grit his teeth and ignored it.

When Commander Clarel slit a man’s throat and summoned a pride demon the size of a barn, he was at the entrance to the courtyard. He winced, the hairs on the back of his neck rising. Toward the end, Meredith had claimed she could sense blood magic in the air, and while Cullen knew on some level that she was mad, he swore there was a moment that he tasted salt. The demon roared. He kept his hand on his sword and muttered a few words from the Chant.

“What do we do?” Ser Caitlin cried, pointing at the demon, as if he couldn’t see the blighted thing. The templars who’d survived Therinfal were…. Maker, but they were so young. In more ways than just their age. They were mostly recruits, men and women who’d spent less than a year with the Sword of Mercy on their chests. Even Ser Barris, one of the oldest, was young for a Knight-Captain. Younger than Cullen had been in Kirkwall when Meredith had promoted him, even. Rylen’s theory was that these recruits had spent the least amount of time on lyrium. Their withdrawals would be the weakest, he reasoned; the pull of the song became stronger as the years went by.

Cullen had other thoughts on the matter. In a way, following orders was its own drug. 

He shook himself free of reverie. “Forward!” he called out.

Before his men could reach the demon, he felt another ripple of power. He turned his head, catching a glimpse of Hawke. She was performing some sort of spell with her hands, her staff hooked in the crook of her elbow. Beside her, he saw Elizabeth. Her arms were raised above her head, her eyes dark and focused. A maelstrom of red liquid surrounded them both.

It took Cullen a second to understand what he was seeing. His jaw gave way.

Blood magic.

“No,” he said softly, his brain stopping. It was one thing to see strangers, to see foolish mages who’d been turned, or were convinced they had no other option-- to see _cruel villains_ who toyed with life as though magic should rule over man--

But not all mages were like that. They weren’t. They could not be. He’d taken a decade to learn that lesson, and he knew it was true, that it was right, and he could not process that Elizabeth--that she--

_It wasn’t possible._

But it was. It was possible, and it was happening, not ten yards away from him.

Cullen stared. The urge to vomit rose suddenly in his throat. A stench filled his nose, a stench of corpses--not the fresh ones at the Fortress, but old corpses, their chests ripped open and their entrails dragged out. The rotting bodies of his friends and colleagues and charges, locked in a stone tower in the middle of the hottest month of summer, and--

*

 _Cullen tried to focus, rocking on his knees. He squeezed his eyes shut. His dry tongue went to lick his lips, but it was like rubbing two pieces of sandpaper together. His ears stretched to hear if_  they _were returning.The echo of blood and ichor dripped off the walls. The putrid scent of the dead filled the air. His nails dug through his hair, deep into his scalp, nearly breaking the skin--_

No. No. Don't give them any more blood.

_He tried to focus. He relaxed his fingers. There were gasps, prayers. They had to be his own because there was no one else left._

There was no one else left.

 _He tried to focus._  They _would return soon. How long since he'd had food? Water?_

Lyrium?

_He tried to focus. The Chant gave way to simpler thoughts, anything to keep his mind sane. Clear. Free._

Stop Uldred _, he thought to himself. He could not break his prison, but somehow, the thought that he could still gain control kept him going_. Stop Uldred. Stop Uldred. Stop Uldred.

_He tried to focus. As the gnawing blackness around him grew worse, his focus began to wane. Someone was approaching. He did not know how long it had been this time. He did not know if he could keep resisting. He did not know-- he did not know himself._

Stop, _his thoughts became as the footsteps grew closer._ Stop. Oh, Maker, just stop, just stop, just kill me, please, just kill me now and--

 *

Brown eyes met his, and for a moment, he saw Regna Aeducan, disgust and pity twisting up her marked face. He saw the short shake of her head as she refused him, as she left to set free the monsters who’d tormented him, who had killed more than half the people he’d ever known in the span of a single evening. He saw her turn her back to him, ignoring the hoarse words he called after her.

A moment burned into his brain forever.

But it was not the dwarf who’d saved Ferelden he was seeing. It was a mage.

A blood mage.

His hand gripped his sword tighter and he took a step forward, reaching within himself for a Silence. Before he even finished taking that first step, a laugh broke through the air. His eyes flicked to see the Champion-- _Hawke?_ his mind wondered, _what’s she doing here?--_ who had a dark grin that did not quite meet her eyes.

“Aha!” Hawke gloated, in a bright but broken tone. Her voice dragged him through seven years in a moment and glued his feet to the spot. “There’s the Knight-Captain I know and love. Everyone was so sure you’d died with Meredith.” _Meredith._ This was not Kinloch. Cullen blinked. He felt his hands grow clammy as he looked back at Elizabeth, who he’d almost--. Who had just--. Hawke shook her head, drawing his attention back to her. “And I was starting to believe them.”

Cullen swallowed thickly and stumbled back. _What are you doing?_ he asked himself, desperately. He was the Commander of an army, for Andraste’s sake. People relied on him now. He couldn’t just--just-- in the middle of a _battle._ Not against those who were his allies. He’d made a promise to himself when he’d joined the Inquisition, that he would never end up like Meredith, seeing the ghosts of enemies everywhere.

And yet, here he was.

But, Maker's breath. _Bl_ _ood magic--_

A roar sounded above his head. He jerked his head up, his eyes widening. He knew that sound. It was the dragon, the archdemon. _Corypheus’s_ dragon.

The sky was pitch black. Nothing was there.

“Clarel!” he heard Jane call from across the courtyard. She chased the Commander of the Grey, who chased the Magister, deeper into the fortress. Cullen fought the urge to follow her with every ounce of his being, and turned back to their army. The soldiers were still fighting the few Wardens who resisted. At the Magister’s betrayal, those who were not under his control had relented, stepping back, or joining the Inquisition’s side. Cullen began to corral the surrendering Wardens to one side, making sure his own men did not attack them. Ser Caitlin in particular looked offended when he parried one of her blows, pushing her back.

“This man is surrendering,” he told her.

“He attacked us earlier!” she argued.

Cullen gave her a dark look. “And now he has surrendered.”

“He doesn’t deserve--”

“The Inquisitor,” Cullen told her firmly, “will decide what he deserves.”

Ser Caitlin backed down with a glare. Cullen pushed the grateful man away, pointing him toward a huddled group of his brethren. It was then that a runner approached them, panting for breath.

“Report,” Cullen said, his attention still on two small spots of fighting. The last of the possessed Wardens appeared to be nearly defeated. He was counting their own numbers, and felt a swell of pride at how few they seemed to have lost.

“It's the Inquisitor,” the runner said with a panicked gasp, and Cullen whipped his head toward him, a sudden vice around his heart. “She… she fell into the Fade, Commander.”

“What, again?” he heard someone say behind him, but Cullen could only feel the vice grow tighter. He grew dizzy, and had to remind himself to breathe. She had the anchor, he told himself. She wasn’t dead yet. She had gotten out of worse situations before.

Still, he could not shake the worry from his shoulders as his men finished off the last of the corrupted Wardens. He gave orders to send their own wounded soldiers back to the healers, and asked one woman to bring back two healers for the Wardens. He did not want to give any of them leave to escape by letting them out of the courtyard, but he could not allow prisoners of the Inquisition to suffer while they waited for--

While they waited for her to return.

Minutes grew longer, but Cullen kept himself busy. His earlier outburst had left him deeply ashamed. He grit his teeth, knowing he’d have to tell Cassandra--well, perhaps not all of it, but some form of what had happened. She would not remove him from command, he knew by now, even if he asked her to.  

Not unless the Inquisitor was--

He did not finish the thought.

The rift in the center of the courtyard began to shimmer. Several soldiers drew their weapons, arrows drawn and swords raised, but somehow, Cullen knew. His heart beat faster as he turned. When Elizabeth and Varric tumbled out of the Fade, and no one followed, his breath caught. Then two more figures appeared behind them, and his lungs expanded fully for the first time in what felt like an hour. She was safe.

Thank the Maker, she was safe.

It was seconds later that Ser Caitlin attacked Elizabeth. Cullen did not interfere immediately, rooted in place. A part of him was still reeling from the news that the Champion was dead. He’d almost considered the woman immortal after Kirkwall. And now, she’d given her life to save--to save Jane, he realized. Another debt Thedas could never repay. 

He was also shocked to hear that he’d not hallucinated what he’d seen earlier, that Jane’s sister truly was a maleficar. Hawke and Elizabeth had used blood magic, right in front of him. He focused on Jane, on the face he’d briefly thought he’d never see again. It was screwed up in fervent desperation as she defended her sister.

With those very thoughts stirring in his brain--that Hawke had been a blood mage, that she had saved Jane’s life, that she was now gone forever--he suddenly remembered the rumors.

They were true, he realized. They must have been. The Champion had been a blood mage all along. She’d defeated the Arishok using blood magic, in front of half the city’s nobility, and only a handful had ever said anything. At the time, he’d thought the idea ridiculous, that so many innocent citizens would band together to protect a single maleficar from the Chantry. But now, staring at Jane, he understood.

Without Hawke, Jane might be dead. And without Elizabeth, Jane would be--

His mind flicked back to Kinloch. He remembered how long, how very long, it had taken for him to recover from those wounds. Not just from his own ordeal, but… the loss of his friends. His comrades. The people who had become his family. In Kirkwall, he’d never opened up, never become more than a passing acquaintance with anyone. He tried to imagine the effect that kind of loss would have on Jane. On the Inquisitor. Cullen loved a great many thing about her, but the thing he treasured most in her was her faith. Not in the Maker, or in Andraste, but in people. She trusted that people would do the right thing, even if they'd sinned. 

He tried to imagine a world where she lost that, where she doubted every shadow and locked herself in, like he once had. _No_ , he thought desperately. Not that. Never that.

There were some things that were worse than blood magic.

And so when Varric gave him an out, when that blessed dwarf gave him a way to save Jane from that fate, he took it.

“He’s telling the truth,” he told Ser Caitlin, lying to protect a blood mage. “Stand down, ser knight.”

Ser Caitlin looked confused. “But--”

He spun on her, glaring. “I said stand down!”

“S-sorry, ser,” Caitlin said, her eyes wide. She lowered her sword.

Jane spoke to the Wardens next. She was trembling, but only slightly. He doubted most of them even noticed. She did not hesitate as she forgave them. He could see some of his colleagues’ looks of displeasure at her decision, but he could only watch in relief.

Of course Jane would forgive them. Of course. Her faith in the good of mankind shone brightly.

As did Cullen's faith in her.

He’d worn the Sword of Mercy for nearly ten years without ever questioning what it was meant to symbolize. But as Jane caught his eye, as he went to her, as he helped her down from the dais, as he held her in her tent while she cried, he understood.

There would always be good, and there would always be evil. But most of the Maker’s children stumbled on a path somewhere in between. Hawke had been a blood mage--not to mention a pain in the ass--but she’d done immeasurable good. These Wardens thought they were saving the world. Cullen had struggled with his own demons for years, but he'd made his way to the other side. Those who faltered needed a chance to find themselves, and that was what Jane so deeply believed.

Her compassion made them stronger. It gave the Inquisition an edge, a brightness, a truth. One the Chantry had forgotten over the years. One Meredith had never believed. One Andraste had known when she marched against the Imperium, determined to prove to her beloved Maker that mankind was still worth saving. 

Mercy was a weapon. Compassion was a strength. And love--love could win wars. 

Cullen stroked Jane's cheek as her tears slowed, praying he'd never lose her. He could not say it out loud, because she would have to face Corypheus one day, and he would not be what held her back. But Maker, if he could keep this one thing in his life, just this one thing, he would never ask for anything again. Let he himself die first, if one of them had to. She was precious, far too precious. Not for being the Inquisitor. Not even for being the Herald of Andraste. Just for being herself.

If the Maker were ever to return to them, Cullen hoped Jane would be the first person He saw. 


	10. Without Much Reluctance*

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please note the change in rating. That's right, I've officially stepped into E territory. This is dedicated to everyone who expected Solas and Elizabeth to meet in the last chapter of TWOO. 
> 
> This is for a prompt from Tress13, and is Part 2 of [this](https://archiveofourown.org/works/13857576/chapters/32338824).
> 
> Prompt: _uhhhh - smut? >////< Learning a new partner's turn-ons? Or maybe Lizzie isn't as good at being discrete as she once was (she's out of practice)?_

 

“You would not happen to know,” Solas said one evening, shortly after he’d entered Elizabeth’s room for the night, “why Sera has taken to making…   _gestures_ whenever I head in this direction, would you?”

Elizabeth was reading in bed and glanced up. He’d been pulling his tunic over his head as he spoke, facing away, and she gave herself a moment to enjoy the sight of his rolling shoulder blades as he moved. Then she processed his question.

“Um. Yes. Apparently, our attempts at discretion were not very successful.” Solas shot her an alarmed look over his shoulder, and she almost laughed, realizing he was thinking of the incident at the fair. “No, no,” she assured him. “Nothing like that. I meant….” She looked down, tracing the title on the cover of her book. “I… missed you while you were in the Forbidden Oasis. And it seems that some people noticed.”

He softened. “I missed you as well,” he admitted.

It was a small thing, but warmth bloomed in her chest anyway. “Yes, well. You had fewer witnesses,” she said, mock accusingly.

“True,” he said, turning toward the bowl of water on the vanity. “However, I would remind you that one of them was Dorian.”

“Oh, dear,” Elizabeth laughed, imagining the party. “And another was Varric.”

“Varric was entirely silent on the subject,” Solas told her. When he finished washing and drying his face, he slipped into the bed. Her eyes were drawn again to the lines and ridges of his bare torso. It had been a pleasant surprise to learn that he slept shirtless on warm nights. His collarbone became briefly prominent as he pulled back the blanket, and she resisted the urge to reach out and caress it. “He was more interested in discussing my reading habits.”

“Really?” she asked, focusing. “That’s not like him.” She considered. “Maybe he thinks we had enough torture from Hawke in the Exalted Plains.” The pang that always accompanied the thought of Hawke echoed in her chest, but enough time had passed that she also smiled at the memory. “The Champion was not exactly subtle.”

“No,” Solas agreed.

“Not that _you_ were the subject of most of it,” Elizabeth said. “I don’t think Hawke even knew how you felt. You’re difficult to read, you know.” She put aside her book and adjusted herself to lean her head on his shoulder. Solas accommodated, putting his arm around her. Suddenly, she remembered something and grinned. “Although…. Maybe not. Ellendra knew at Haven.”

He raised his eyebrows. “At Haven!” he exclaimed. “Impossible.”

“She did,” Elizabeth told him. “She suggested I take you to bed, because of the way you looked at me.”

“What was your response?”

She hesitated. “It was before… before the letter,” she reminded him. “But…. Well, I told her… I told her that you were obnoxious.” A long chuckle made his shoulders shake, and she felt her cheeks grow warmer as it went on. “Well, you were.”

“Indeed. And what did she say to that?”

“She said _‘then gag him first’.”_

 _“Gag_ me?” Solas asked, his eyes crinkling in amusement.

“Yes,” she said.

“Well!”

She shrugged. “Then again, Ellendra thinks half the world’s in lust with the other half at any given point, anyway, especially when she doesn’t have someone to….” She trailed off, waving a hand in the air, trying to think of a polite way to say it.

“To gag?” Solas suggested with a smirk.

A huff of a laugh escaped her. “Yes. That.”

There was a pause. “It is a shame you no longer speak,” he said, growing more serious. “You must miss your friend’s company.”

She sighed. “I do. Sometimes. But… we’re not the same people we once were.”

He tightened his hold on her in a comforting way, and she snuggled closer to him, tossing one leg over his body. He went to shift away. But then she felt him, half-hard beneath her knee.

“Oh,” she said, surprised.

“I apologize,” he said, shifting her to his side. He looked genuinely sorry. “A side effect of our conversation.”

Elizabeth raised her eyebrows, confused. “Ellendra?”

He blinked. “No!” he protested. “The…. The activity discussed, rather than the person.”

It dawned on her what he meant. _“Oh,”_ she said again, her eyebrows climbing even higher. “The gagging.”

“Yes,” Solas agreed, his eyes cautious.

Elizabeth paused. _That_ was interesting. The image of Solas receiving pleasure with a cloth tied over his mouth flicked into her mind. A smile rose to her lips. “Is that so?” she asked, pressing her body more firmly against his. She ran her fingers down his bare chest and stomach to touch the outline of his cock. His breath hitched. “You enjoy the thought of me,” she paused, letting her voice grow breathy, _“gagging you?”_

This time, she did not miss the darkening of his eyes. He’d softened slightly when he’d apologized, but that was rapidly reversing, to her delighted surprise. She had not lied--he _was_ difficult to read. There was a thrill in knowing that her words alone could open him like a book. She’d never tried these sorts of bedroom games before, but if Solas kept looking like _that_ , she could learn to like them very quickly, indeed.

“I… would not be opposed to the idea,” he said, in a voice that was far too steady for someone who was currently being teased to hardness. She decided to change that.

She brought her lips closer to his ear. “I should warn you” she whispered, going out on a limb. Her fingers wrapped around him and stroked once. “I wouldn’t stop at gagging.” She let her breath touch his skin. “I might tie you up.” With that, she sucked his earlobe into her mouth, teasing it gently with her tongue and teeth.

“Elizabeth,” he gasped.

She hushed him. “No speaking.” She moved her thumb to the crown of his cock and made a circle, tracing the ridge. At the same time, she licked the shell of his ear. He shivered and let out a small moan. She grinned. Normally, he was nowhere near this responsive. Light bondage was quickly climbing higher on her list of things to learn more about. “Do you think I should blindfold you, too?”

Solas swallowed. “Yes,” he said, and this time his voice was rough. She rejoiced in her victory.

“I said, no speaking,” she told him before taking another nip at his ear. “Someone’s bad at following orders. Now I have no choice.” She kissed him, and he returned it deeply, sliding his tongue into her mouth. The major drawback of gagging him was losing those lips and that tongue, but she could tell it would be worth it, just this once. She slipped out of bed, pushing the blankets down as she went. “Take off those leggings. And that _is_ an order. I’ll be right back.”

At her dresser, she opened her top drawer, finding the things she needed immediately. She returned with a pair of long gloves and a belt. Per her request, Solas was naked and lying on the bed. He’d only been back for a few nights, and the sight of him almost made her want to toss the items in her hand and skip to the sex. She restrained himself.

Thinking back on the few times she’d read a stolen dirty book in the Circle, she paused. “Don’t we need some sort of safeword?” she asked. Then her eyes went wide. “Oh, but you won’t be able to speak.”

“That is the point, yes.”

“Then… how will you let me know if it’s too much?”

He took a quick breath, his gaze growing more intense, as if he was very interested in seeing what _‘too much’_ might look like. “I _am_ a mage,” he reminded her, faintly amused beneath the piercing gaze. He nodded toward the lantern on her vanity. “Were there any cause for alarm, I would light that.”

She relaxed and nodded. She climbed onto the bed. “Hold up your hands.”

Solas placed his wrists together above his head. He watched with interest as she knotted the leather, but said nothing. She made sure the bindings were tight.

“Can you move them?” she asked.

He shifted, struggling. She saw the muscles in his arm move beneath his skin. He shook his head.

“Good,” she said, reaching for the next item.

Soon, he had one long glove covering his eyes and another over his mouth. She took in the sight of him. He was flushed, the color high on his cheeks and chest against his pale skin. He did not move a muscle, besides the rise and fall of his chest. It was strange to be so alone and intimate in a room with someone who could, ostensibly, not interact with her, or see her. She placed an experimental hand on his stomach, a light touch. Solas inhaled through his nose. She felt tiny bumps rise beneath her hand. Her fingers ran lower, tracing over the narrowing of his torso, leaving gooseflesh in their wake. His cock had not softened and bobbed as she got closer.

She was not practiced at speaking during sex, but this called for something. “You’re enjoying this already, aren’t you?” she said in a low tone, reverting to the breathy voice she’d used earlier. After a pause, he nodded once. Her hand floated over him, circling the skin around his cock with feather touches. “You’re fully hard, and I haven’t even touched you yet.”

Solas swallowed, his throat bobbing.

“Would you like me to touch you?”

Another nod.

She smiled widely and let her hand curl around his shaft. She was gentle--there was no lubrication, and she did not want to chafe him in such a vulnerable position. Her strokes were steady and slow. Her other hand brushed his sides and legs at random points. Somehow, she knew it would heighten his pleasure--the shock of not knowing where she’d touch him next seemed to thrill him.

And it thrilled her, too, if she were honest. She relished his jerks of surprise, the quickening of his breath through his nose, the way his arms were beginning to strain against the belt. He was tense, his muscles primed and tight, and he looked both strong and weak, lying before her. If she had not felt the belt herself, she would have guessed he could break free. She sped up her hand, and he groaned, hips flexing.

She enjoyed this as much as he did, she realized. Which made sense. She’d always preferred _giving_ over _taking_ in the dark corners of her Circle _._ In many cases, it was difficult or impossible for her to reach her own pleasure, and so she had come to like the other side of sex--the delight of seeing another person fall apart from the touch of her hands, and her lips, and her skin. Normally, Solas was insistent that she receive pleasure as well, and she was not about to complain. 

But there was a part of her that missed the easy satisfaction of taking control.

This, she realized, was the ideal way to indulge that side of her.

She shifted herself on the bed to settle over his knees. Bringing her head down, she kept her eyes on his face as she flicked out her tongue and licked the tip of him. He started. Pleased, she took the whole head in her mouth, still stroking him with her hand. Her tongue wet the sides of his cock, and soon her grip tightened.

A moan escaped him. As she slid him deeper and deeper into her mouth, her tongue swirling around him, the muffled sounds become louder--more like muffled words. She enjoyed him helpless, but her curiosity went wild, flaming the fuel in her gut. He was not vocal in bed, not usually. She wondered what he would be saying without the gag. Was he instructing her? Praising her? Sometimes, he would say her name--was that what she was hearing?

Or was he begging?

The thought sent a flash of heat to her core.

And then, oh. He let out a whimper, weak and pleading, and she knew he _was_ begging. She could tell he was close, but wanted to draw out the pleasure for both of them. Her grip softened, her mouth sliding off him.

“Not yet,” she said, pulling up to his side.

She licked the curve of his ear up to its point, drawing another muffled whimper from him. She was not sure she could possibly be wetter. “I’m going to remove the gag,” she said, keeping her strokes slow and steady. His cock was bright red now, and leaking on her hand. She used her other hand to tug at the knot of his gag. “But you can only say one thing.” She paused, holding the base of his cock. “That you’re mine.”

She felt him shiver and his muscles clench in an effort to stop himself from coming. The glove fell away from his mouth. She gripped him tight again and sped up her hand, squeezing his hard flesh.

“I am, _”_ he gasped, still blind and helpless beneath her. His voice broke. “I am yours. I’m-- _Elizabeth.”_

With that, he came, his thighs flexing and his hips jerking up. His words were lost in a wordless groan. Lines of his spend landed on his stomach and chest, more than she was used to. Her walls clenched with envy. But she knew the memory of seeing him like this would be etched her brain, a memory she'd revisit again and again. 

She stroked him through it, milking every last drop.

When he was finished, his muscles went slack. He was panting. She began to undo his restraints.

When his arms were free, he tore off the blindfold. He stared at her, his breath evening. 

“Was that good?” she asked playfully. When he didn't reply, she lost some of her bravado. "Was it?" she asked, this time more concerned. “It wasn't too much at the end? I mean, I know we're just….” The word _'temporary'_ would not leave her lips, and she trailed off. 

He responded by dragging her into a kiss. It was far more enthusiastic than she’d expected, and she laughed into his mouth, relieved. She wondered if he could taste the lingering salt from himself.

“Where are you getting this energy?” she gasped as she pulled away.

Solas ignored her question. “You are incredible,” he told her, his voice thick with emotion, before dipping back in for another kiss. This time, she relaxed into it for a moment before she remembered.

“Wait. _Wait._ We need to clean you up.”

He remained in the bed while she grabbed the washcloth. She returned and gently wiped away any evidence of their activities. She tried to leave again, but he pulled her against his body, tossing the cloth onto the bedside table. He held her there, her back against his chest, He lined her neck with kisses.

“Solas,” she warned him.

His arms wrapped around her, pulling her ass against him. “You would not allow me to return the favor?”

“No,” Elizabeth said instantly. She understood the attraction of being rendered helpless by a lover, but she did not find the thought appealing herself. She searched for a way to explain without sounding like she did not trust him. “I think…. I think I’d feel… trapped.”

“Ah,” he said, slowly. “That is not quite what I meant. I… would not expect you to enjoy being bound.”

There was a note of pity in his voice. He was reading too much into her reluctance, she thought. Then she paused, wondering if he was. Perhaps she was not reading _enough_ into it. She considered herself lucky compared to some of the other Circle mages she'd met, but she'd still come of age in a Circle. Choice and control were treasured things to a young apprentice.

Before she could think much more on that, he spoke again. “I simply meant,” he said, rubbing his hand in a circle at her belly, “that I could still please you.”

“You don’t have to,” she said, though her voice shook a little as he touched the hem of her nightclothes. “I enjoyed that very much, I assure you.”

“I am aware that I do not _have_ to,” he said in a low tone. “But I would _like_ to.”

She snuggled back against him. He’d slipped her nightgown up and was ghosting his fingers over her thighs, waiting for permission to go higher. The fire that giving him pure pleasure had lit in her was still burning, growing hotter with every touch.

“Alright,” she whispered.

His hand rose. When his fingers reached the apex of her legs, he let out a surprised noise at finding her soaking.

“I told you I enjoyed it,” she said, and then gasped, because he’d found the point of her pleasure.

He shifted his head forward to kiss her shoulder. “Yes,” he whispered. “Much as I’m sure I will enjoy this.”

His long fingers had less work to do than normal. Already, her sex was swollen and wet, and her clit was hard. His hot breath on the place where her neck met her shoulder made her shiver. He was kinder than she’d been, and did not stop when she moaned that she was close. The thought of that--the thought of him hard and patient and waiting on her for his pleasure--that was what pushed her over. She rode each wave of pleasure on his hand, shaking from the intensity of her orgasm.

He continued to hold her as her breath slowed. “Thank you,” she said, smiling. “I’ll sleep well tonight.”

He kissed her shoulder again. “I believe it is I who should be thanking you.”

She bit her lip. “Is that…. Would you like to do something like that again, sometime?”

“I would,” he said. “Very much so.” He paused, stroking her hair. “However, a sturdier form of restraint would not be unwelcome.”

She scoffed. “Are you critiquing my skills?”

“Not at all,” Solas said. “I am offering constructive feedback.” He sounded amused. “Someone once told me there is _always_ room for improvement.”

Elizabeth leaned back against him, rolling her eyes. “Ass. I love you, but all things considered, I should have left the gag on.”

He laughed, the sound rumbling deep in his chest. She could not help but grin. “I love you as well,” he said, the smile still evident in his voice. “Good night, Elizabeth.”

“Good night.”

With a lazy wave of her hand, she put out the candles and drifted off to sleep.


	11. A Tranquil Tone

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt from anon on tumblr: _pretty please an angsty look at a Tranquil Lizzie?_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You asked for it, anon. Sorry, everyone else! What a way to follow the smut. 
> 
> This is a post-Trespasser AU.

The orders were simple enough: take the prisoner south, and drop her at the first templar outpost over the border. Gio, the leader of their little band of three, had explained the whys and hows at the start of the mission. Apparently, the prisoner was a mage of some importance. Or she had been, before the Rite. The Venatori dressed a few men up as Orlesian templars and had them ambush her while she was on the road. The hope was she would tell the Inquisition what had happened, sowing discord among the Southern leaders.

Marinus didn’t meet the prisoner until later, when the Venatori handed her off to Gio. Their point of contact said she’d been a fighter. He could have guessed it. She arrived with a bruised jaw and welts across her hands, where he supposed she must have grabbed at the brand.

On the first night, Therosia caught him healing the prisoner. She stopped him with a slap. “You idiot,” she hissed. “The worse she looks, the better.”

Marinus obeyed, but did not like it. Treating Tranquil poorly always made him uneasy. After all, what separated them from him but a sunburst scar and the grace of the Maker?

“Sorry,” he told the prisoner in Common once Therosia left.

The prisoner met his gaze with a blank stare. “Your efforts were adequate,” she said. The flat tone sent shivers up his spine. “I am in less discomfort than I was before.”

Besides Gio, Therosia, and Marinus, the Venatori had provided a team of three mercenaries--warriors from the Free Marches, led by a man named Gull. He had burly arms covered in tattoos and a gold tooth that glinted when he smiled. He also leered at the prisoner in a way that made Marinus ill.

On the second night, Marinus asked Gio if maybe they should keep an eye on her, in case Gull was getting ideas.

“Let him get ideas,” Gio said without looking up from his food. “The Inquisition will think the templars did it.”

Marinus frowned. That night, he moved his tent closer to the prisoner’s.

On the third night, the three mages were playing cards in Therosia’s tent. Therosia had just begun to tell a joke that Marinus had already heard--the one with the one-legged bartender from Kirkwall--when Gio cut her off, holding up a hand. His face grew serious, and he cocked his head.

“You feel that?”

Marinus stilled, sensing the air around him. Then it struck him. A quiver of unfamiliar aura--something cold and deep. Gio and Therosia were already reaching for their staffs. He picked up his own and followed them out of the tent.

“Psst,” Therosia hissed at Gull’s tent. Gull’s head appeared at the flap. “We’ve got company,” she whispered.

Gull grunted and disappeared. He re-emerged a second later with his two lackeys, their swords drawn. Gio gestured Marinus to go guard the prisoner’s tent. The chill in Marinus’s aura grew. The presence in the woods was drawing nearer.

“How many?” Gull rumbled in a voice Marinus could barely hear.

Gio was frowning. “Hard to tell,” he replied, his eyes going distant. “Feels like one, but….”

He trailed off as his head turned eastward. Marinus followed his gaze. A tall, unarmed figure emerged from the darkness, with a cloak drawn over its head. Therosia made a flat motion and Marinus felt the comforting hum of a barrier. Marinus was too far away to be covered. He landed his own.

“Halt,” Gio said in Common. The stranger complied. Gio raised his hand, letting sparks of electricity float on his finger stips. “State your business.”

The stranger did not respond. Instead, his eyes flashed in the shadow of his hood. At first, Marinus thought nothing had happened, but then he heard Therosia gasp.

He realized Gio had turned to stone.

Therosia tried to raise a wall of fire. The stranger’s eyes flashed again. She joined Gio, replaced by a statue with its arms raised as if praying. Gull and one of his soldiers made to strike; the other dropped his weapon and spun, sprinting toward the woods. It was the same.

 _Flash--_ stone.

 _Flash--_ stone.

 _Flash--_ stone.

Marinus stared in shock. Firelight flickered over the still figures that had once been his comrades. He must have let out a noise, because the stranger turned. Marinus gulped. He dropped to his knees, putting his hands up. His staff fell to the side.

“Please!” he cried out, in Tevene. He caught himself. “Please,” he repeated in Common. “Please. Don’t hurt me. I surrender.”

The man stepped toward him. He raised two hands and lowered his hood to reveal a bald head and a pair of pointed ears. Marinus shivered, feeling in danger of wetting himself.

“A wise choice,” the man replied in Tevene. His hard blue eyes went to the tent behind him. “Bring her out. Do not try to escape.”

Marinus scrambled to his feet and ducked into the tent. The fighting had woken the prisoner, who sat cross-legged in her bedroll, her hands bound in her lap. Marinus helped her to her feet. He hesitated as he glanced at the brand on her forehead. He had a feeling that the stranger would not be pleased. A wild thought of hiding it with her short, golden hair entered his head--but the Rite would be obvious in her docile expression, anyway. Pushing down his reluctance, he brought the prisoner out, praying for mercy.

“Here,” he said, pushing her forward. He fought the urge to tell the stranger that he'd had no part in the ritual. He doubted the man cared.

The stranger stared. His nostrils flared as he glanced at her forehead. The hardness in his eyes softened. After a beat, he pulled her to him, clutching her in a tight embrace. His eyes closed and he buried his face in her hair. “Elizabeth,” he murmured. He spoke next in a language Marinus did not recognize, his voice rough and low.

“There is no reason to be sorry,” the prisoner replied in Common. “In fact, this is fortunate. Had we met under different circumstances, I may have tried to injure you.”

The stranger’s grip stilled, his lips tightening. He let her go. His hands went to hers and he undid the ropes. He rubbed at the marks they’d left behind, with perhaps too much tenderness to be effective.

“I told them the restraints were unnecessary,” the prisoner added.

The man looked at her forehead again. Shame flickered across his face. He sighed and turned to Marinus.

“There is an Inquisition outpost two days from here,” he said in a hard tone. “You will take her there. You will see that no further harm comes to her. If you fail to do this, you and every person you know will suffer. Do you understand?”

Marinus nodded, not trusting himself to speak.

“Am I permitted to gather my belongings?” the prisoner asked the stranger.

The stranger glanced back. “Of course,” he told her gently. “Of course you are.”

The prisoner went to Gio’s tent. Marinus stood in perfect silence, worried the stranger would use her absence as an excuse to change his mind about letting someone live. But the stranger’s eyes stayed on the tent until the prisoner returned with a knapsack. She rummaged through it and pulled out some sort of glowing red potion that Marinus could not recognize. Without hesitating, she held it out to the stranger.

He looked surprised. “You… did not destroy it,” he said.

“No,” she told him.

“Why?” he asked.

“I do not know,” the prisoner said. “I once found meaning in it, but can no longer remember why.” She looked at him evenly. “It occurred to me that it may still hold value to you.”

The man was as still as the statues behind him. Then his face crumbled. He took the potion from her gently, as if it were precious. “Thank you,” he said softly.

“It is no trouble.”

The man touched her chin with the hand that did not hold the potion. He searched her eyes, and the expression on his face made Marinus look at his feet, uncomfortable.

Finally, he sighed, unable to find whatever he’d hoped to see. He kissed her forehead, just above the brand. “Tell your sister,” he said in an affected voice, “that I am sorry I was too late.”

“I will,” the prisoner said.

The stranger turned to Marinus one last time. His face twisted and he shook his head. “It is a pity that she will show you more leniency than you deserve,” he said, half to himself.

With that, he replaced his hood and turned, walking away. As he passed the statues of Marinus’s old team, they crumbled into dust. The prisoner and Marinus watched him until he blended into the night.

Marinus swallowed, recovering his voice. “Who,” he began, shakily. He cleared his throat. “Who was that?”

The prisoner turned to meet his gaze. “That was the Dread Wolf.”


	12. Choices

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> anonymous asked: AU where Lizzie gets pregnant?
> 
> I know this is not what you wanted, anon, so I apologize. But I've long thought that a baby is not something Elizabeth would want. 
> 
> Trigger warnings for unwanted pregnancy and discussions of abortion.

  


It was Bull who noticed first, because of course it was. He slipped into the seat next to her at the Herald’s Rest when Varric went to pick up their dinners and eyed the glass of wine in her hand warily.

“Sure you should be drinking that?” he asked in a half-casual manner.

“This?” Elizabeth replied. She held it up to study it. “I mean, it won’t win any prizes, but I’m hardly Vivienne when it comes to wine.” She glanced at him, narrowing her eyes. “Why? Is it poisoned?”

“Nah,” Bull replied. “I just meant that under the Qun, someone in your condition usually abstains.”

Elizabeth looked at him blankly. The realization of what he meant hit her in full force, accompanied by some quick math and a mental calendar. Her mouth fell open and a hand rose to cover it. It _had_ been a while since she’d last bled, but that didn’t mean…. That wasn’t…. She couldn’t be….

She was out the door in seconds. She made it to the training yard before she vomited in some bushes, hidden from the soldiers. A heavy hand brushed her hair back.

“You didn’t know,” Bull said, sounding apologetic. “Sorry. Thought it’d be obvious by now.”

She straightened without meeting his eye. “What do I do?” she gasped.

Bull stroked her hair. “Hey. I don’t know, Little Boss. That’s up to you.” He paused. “I’d probably start with telling Solas, though.”

 _Solas._ Elizabeth took in a quick breath before emptying the rest of her stomach into the bush.

 

~~~

 

She did not seek him out immediately, despite knowing that she should. When he slipped into her bed that night, sometime between midnight and morning, she pretended she to be asleep. If he could tell, he didn’t say anything.

Sleep evaded her. The sun rose, and she watched him in the early dawn hours, calm and quiet. A lump formed in her throat.

Eventually, his eyes opened. He gave her the quiet smile she did not deserve. “Good morning,” he murmured.

“I’m pregnant,” she blurted out, and she began to cry.

Solas blinked, surprised. To his credit, his reaction was muted--perhaps because hers was so extreme. His brows came together in concern and he moved closer, placing an arm around her.

“I’m pregnant,” she repeated, trying not to sob. “I took Witherstalk every time, but--something must not have worked.”

“I see,” he said, soothingly, moving his hand up and down her back. “Are you…?” He hesitated. “Is a child something you want?”

“No,” she said.

He paused, cleared his throat. “Not now, with me, or not… ever?”

Elizabeth was not sure how to respond.

“I apologize,” he said quickly. “I did not mean--.” He studied her. “I only meant that you have options,” he told her, sounding neutral.

That he sounded neither disappointed or relieved made her angry, for some reason. She squeezed her eyes shut. “What do _you_ want me to do?” she asked, trying to keep the bite of accusation from her tone. This was as much his fault as hers.

“Elizabeth,” he said. “That is not for me to decide.”

She sat in silence for a bit, letting the tears stream down her face. Finally, she rubbed them away. “I don’t want it,” she admitted.

“You sound unhappy about that,” Solas said. “If it is merely the circumstances--”

“It’s not,” Elizabeth said. “I just-- I feel like that makes me a terrible woman.”

“Elizabeth,” Solas said softly, pulling her closer. “No. Never say that.”

“But to not want my own _child--”_

“It is not a child,” he told her. “Not yet. It is not even a being. Were I to seek it out in the Fade, I would find nothing. Not for several months now.”

Elizabeth fell quiet again, somewhat comforted by the thought. Her tears slowed, and she took a deep breath. “I’m sorry.”

“There is nothing to apologize for,” he told her firmly.

“In the Circle, it was easy to know that I didn’t want to--have children,” she explained hesitantly. “If I did, they would take them away from me. They’d be raised by the Chantry. I did not have to consider--it was never about what _I_ wanted. But now….” She trailed off, biting her lip. “It’s not about the child’s future. It’s about mine. Even if I thought the Circle was gone for good--even if _this--,”_ she waved a hand between them, “was more than temporary, I still don’t think I’d keep it.” Her throat tightened again. “I don’t think I _want_ children.”

“As I said, it is your choice. I will support your decision, either way.” She flicked up her eyes to meet his, finding his gaze steady and sympathetic. “I love you,” he assured her.

The tightness around her lungs loosened. “I love you, too,” she said, burying herself into his chest.

 

~~~

 

The next time she was at the Herald’s Rest, two weeks later, she spotted Bull from across the room. He raised an eyebrow, and she nodded. When a messenger arrived about Guild business, he once again slipped into the seat that Varric left vacant.

“So you took care of it,” Bull said, sounding unsurprised.

Elizabeth did not reply immediately. When she did, she glanced up at him. “Do you think I made the right choice?”

He patted her back firmly. “It’s the choice you made, Little Boss,” he told her with a smirk. “So it must be the right one.”

She felt a weight lift off her chest. “Thanks, Bull.”

“Maker’s balls,” Varric said, approaching. “A dwarf’s gone for two minutes, and suddenly his seat is fair game. You know, in Kirkwall we had manners.”

“Manners,” Bull scoffed. “Is that what the Arishok called it?”

“Does that mean you’re gonna occupy this seat for the next three years?” Varric asked dryly.

Bull laughed. “Alright. I’m going, I’m going.”

“Ser--,” the Guild messenger said, appearing beside them. He held out another paper for Varric to sign.

“Oh for Andraste’s sake,” Varric muttered, following him to the bar.

Bull nodded at Elizabeth. “Hey. I'm proud of you, Little Boss. Don’t forget it.”

Elizabeth dropped her gaze, letting out a huff. “Proud of me. For what? Doing the easy thing?”

Bull shrugged. “For knowing what you want,” he said. Elizabeth watched him as he sauntered back to his usual chair, patting Krem on the shoulder as he passed by, and smiled.


	13. An Inexhaustible Subject*

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> NSFW. Smut part the second. Y'all can thank buttsonthebeach for this.

It was Grim’s birthday. The Chargers had decided to play a drinking game to celebrate, though Grim himself seemed neither enthused or repelled by the idea. The rules were simple: any time someone spoke a sentence that was not in the form of a question, they had to take a sip of their drink. If someone answered another person’s question with a _‘yes’_ or a _‘no’,_ then they had to finish their drink and order another.

“That’s it?” Elizabeth asked Krem.

“That’s it,” he said. “We do it for everyone’s birthday.”

“It’s a tradition!” Dalish explained.

“From where?” Elizabeth wondered.

The Chargers all answered her at once, which would have been useful if they’d been in agreement. As it was, she received more of a garbled shout than a word -- though she was fairly sure someone had said _“Markham!”,_ and someone else had said, _“Orzammar!”,_ and _perhaps_ a third person had said, _“Ancient Arlathan!”_

How Elizabeth got roped into playing this game was a mystery. Well, how was not mystery, really. _How_ was a mage whose name began with D and rhymed with “Florian”, who apparently wanted Elizabeth to die, because she was terrible at following rules. _Why_ Elizabeth let herself get roped into playing was a mystery. She remembered agreeing to try it for a little bit, then she remembered being forced to chug her drink three times, and then she remembered waking up in her bed, alone, with the sun much higher than it usually was when she woke. She was not sure whether Solas had already left, or if he’d stayed the night in his room. He’d complained before that sometimes when she had too much to drink, she hogged the blankets.

The rest of the day was a blur. It got easier as it went on, at least. She did not feel ill, or in pain -- merely achy and exhausted. In the afternoon, she soaked in a hot salted bath, which helped immensely. She hoped to take a cat nap, but then Jane invited her to the war room, as they would be discussing a note from Lady Trevelyan, and Fiona had notes to review on Elizabeth’s planned lesson for creation spells.

By the time she finished all her work, it was night, and she felt about ready to fall into her bed. She dragged herself to her room. To her surprise, Solas was there, reading a book. He was partially tucked under the blankets, wearing a tight-fitting undershirt. He did not even look up when she came in the door.

Elizabeth paused, eying his bare arms. He’d returned from the Approach just a week earlier. Despite using a spell that protected one’s skin from the sun, his shoulders and nose had gone slightly tan, and his freckles stood out more prominently than they had before.

She admired the view as she closed the door and leaned on the frame. His muscles were toned, his frame was poised from weeks of riding and fighting, and his eyes were clear and bright.

Being in the field suited him, she decided.

She was not quite as sleepy as she’d been two minutes ago.

Apparently, this was reaching Solas’s upper limits of being leered at. He glanced up. “Are you coming to bed?” he asked.

Instead of answering, she moved toward him, stripping her clothing as she did. They’d been sleeping together long enough that her confidence was on the rise when they were alone, and she attempted to saunter a little, hoping she landed on the right side of the line between sexy and ridiculous. He raised one eyebrow, seeing to catch her intention.

“No,” he said.

“Why not?” she asked, pausing. She’d gotten down to her smalls; wherever she’d been previously, she was rapidly approaching _‘ridiculous.’_ It was an effort not to feel disappointed, but if he was not in the mood, that was that.

Solas’s eyes betrayed him. There was a spark of interest as he looked at over her bare chest, before pointedly returning to his book. “You need rest.”

So it was not his mood. “I can rest later,” she said, continuing toward the bed.

“Elizabeth. You fell asleep at the war table today.”

Elizabeth feigned outrage. “I did not.” Solas managed to give her a dubious look without actually looking away from his book. “I was resting my eyes,” she said in defense. After another beat, she asked, “According to whom, exactly?”

His lips twitched into a faint smile. “I would not reveal my sources so easily.”

“Leliana?”

“No.”

“Jane,” she guessed.

“Elizabeth.”

“Cullen,” she decided. There was no response. “It was Cullen, wasn’t it?”

“Perhaps more than one person expressed concern.”

“Definitely Cullen,” she said. “Cullen doesn’t get to talk. The man looks like he sleeps two hours a night.”

Solas flipped a page with a sigh.

Giving up the verbal argument, Elizabeth slid onto the bed. With one hand, she took the book away. He grabbed her wrist loosely, not stopping her, but not approving either, a glare flickering between his brows. Had she not come to know his moods so well, his surprise would have hidden beneath it, but the quiet tilt of his brow made her bite back a smile. She slid into place as she dropped the book to the floor. The thud was louder than she’d anticipated. He gazed jerked toward it, and she winced.  

It didn’t matter. She had successfully found her way into his lap. That was one victory.

He frowned at the floor. “If you believe that mistreating one of the few _accurate_ modern works regarding the Veil is a promising way to catch my attention, I am afraid you are mistaken.”

“Am I?” she asked with mock innocence. She rolled her hips once against him. He’d kept his eyes averted since her shirt and breastband had come off, and she suspected that was because he was tempted. A bet she was willing to take. She felt the confirmation of his interest grow beneath her. “Ah,” she teased, rolling her hips again. “And yet, it would seem your attention is very much caught.”

She ran her left hand along his jaw. It was so strong, so angular. There’d been a time when she’d preferred soft men, and she could barely remember why. She let her fingers trace his lips next. The firmness beneath her twitched as she dipped her finger into his mouth, and she let her smile widen.

“I think I should get to decide how much rest I get tonight. And luckily,” she added, lowering her voice to a murmur, “I know your secret.”

Solas’s hand twitched on her wrist, but he did not resist when she pulled it free. “Is that so?” he said, his voice softer.

“Mmhmm,” Elizabeth hummed in response. She took his two hands in hers and dragged them above his head. It mimicked the pose she’d put in him that one time weeks ago, when he’d confessed he enjoyed someone else taking charge. The time she’d realized she enjoyed it, too.

Understanding came over Solas’s face, chased by something sharper. His eyes darkened as he drew a breath. “I see. Then, yes. You… have my attention.” His voice had an edge to it, but it was maddeningly far from what Elizabeth wanted to hear. She tried nipping his chin, tightening the grip on his hands. He shuddered, and she made her kisses gentle. “How do you plan to keep it?” he asked, a little closer to what she wanted.

“Mmm. I have so many ideas.” Elizabeth winced. That _had_ to have been ridiculous, the way she almost purred it into his ear as she dropped her head. She almost apologized. But he inhaled, his breath hitching. Apparently, he liked it. He was no longer trying to ignore her. Quite the opposite, in fact. His own hips were beginning to react, fidgeting under hers. She scanned her brain for more ridiculous things to say, more things to make him harder. Maker, if it meant he kept reacting like this, she would happily recite the Chant backwards. She cleared her throat, gathering courage. “Perhaps you want me to take you? Or turn you over, so I could use my fingers to explore _you,_ for a change.” She was whispering now, her face very close to his. “Or maybe I’ll be selfish tonight. Since you think I’m in need of rest. Maybe I’ll put my thighs on either side of your face and make you pleasure me.”

Solas went quickly from interested to captivated. It was beautiful to watch, his eyes clear and wide. He almost looked younger. She was still getting used to the fact with the fact that, on some level, this kind of control made her slick, made her warm, made her feel like every nerve in her body was on fire. But how could it not, with someone like him? If anything, Solas acting cold and distant only encouraged her. There was something thrilling in the idea that she could tear him down with a few words.

“You really liked that idea,” she said out loud, pulling back slightly. She let go of his hands and put gentle pressure on his shoulder, encouraging him to slide down in the bed. He did so without speaking, and she smiled. “Good.”

She pulled off her smalls. Talking had already made her a little wet. In the circle, she’d been self-conscious about her scent--the fact that it lingered meant there was just another thing for templars to notice. But Solas had expressed enjoying it, so she pushed those fears away and began to straddle his face.

One hand came to rest on her hip, holding her in place. The other went lower and spread her open. She made an appreciative noise. Her favorite way to come was with his tongue and fingers in combination, and she could tell that was what he would do tonight.

The first few flicks of his tongue were tentative, getting a sense of their new angle. Then he used the flat, rough side against her clit, swirling just enough to make her shift. Her walls clenched and she jumped. He gripped her hip tighter and his mouth followed her as she tried to move.

 _“Solas,” she_ gasped.

He murmured into her folds in response. The noise he made amplified the feeling of his tongue and she arched her back. His hand traveled higher. He pinched a nipple hard enough to make her cry out, the pain-pleasure shooting through her veins.

The distant worry that she would crush him faded entirely as his other hand slid below. One finger, then two, filled her, brushing against a point within her that always made her shudder. Her thighs grew tight around his head. She bore down, trying to get more of the sensation, growing closer and closer. His teeth teased her clit. She was right on the edge. It occurred to her that he was holding back.

“Now,” she said--begged-- _demanded--_ and his fingers sparked warmer, setting her off. She felt her nerves burst, a rush of heat exploding low in her body to the tips of her fingers and toes. “Oh, yes, yes _, yes,”_ she cried, her voice cracking.

Everything went clear. It lasted a moment, or longer. As she came down, her body felt limp. Solas moved somehow and seemed to catch her, helping her lie down. She took in his expression. He looked very awake, and more than a little amused as he adjusted her so that her naked body lay beneath the covers.

“Thank you,” she murmured. Now that the energy had left her, she could barely keep her eyes open. Solas did not respond, only wrapping his arms around her. She felt his arousal against her leg, and her eyes fluttered open. “But what about you?”

“I can wait.” Solas gave her a gentle smile. He pulled her close to hold her. The heat of him was comforting. “As I have already mentioned, you need rest.”

Elizabeth meant to argue, but she felt the familiar tug of the Fade pulling her deeper. Her eyes fell shut again. “Fine,” she said. “You’re right. But,” she added, struggling with forming words, “you can tell Cullen that I did _not_ fall asleep in the war room.”

Solas chuckled against her. If he responded further, she did not hear. She’d already fallen into a dreamless sleep.


End file.
